Five Threads
by El Stormo
Summary: Five people begin their own stories, finding their way in the world. But lives rarely leave each other untouched, and paths that run as high as they can, will sooner or later cross. When they do, some walk together, and others will do all they can to push the other off the path and into the depths.
1. Falnas: To Catch a Thief

**.**

**FALNAS**

**To Catch a Thief**

**City of Riften**

As luck would have it, Falnas arrived in Riften on market day, his favourite day of the week, no matter what the actual day was, it was different in every city. Market day meant there weren't just the usual stalls in the market place, the vegetable and fruit stands, the butcher's stall, and all that sort of low-profit chump-change opportunities, no, on market day the other merchants came, and those brought the chances for some good business. For themselves, and for Falnas.

It wouldn't be as easy here as it would be in Morrowind, of course. A Dunmer tended to stand out, and the mostly Nordic population of Tamriel still tended to associate a dark skin with subterfuge and deception. Completely unjustified of them, of course, Falnas thought to himself, grinning. True, these people were simpler and less perceptive than his fellow Dunmer, but on the other hand, if you got caught stealing in Skyrim, most people didn't turn you in to the authorities, they simply chased you with a butcher's knife or a woodcutter's axe. What happened then depended on whose legs gave out first.

Falnas was rather confident he'd be able to make a quick septim or two here, however. Markets were deliciously busy, and the people wonderfully carefree. He'd have to be careful for one of them though, a powerful-looking blonde Nord woman with a big battle axe on her back and blue dye on one side of her face. She didn't wear a guard's armour, but Falnas was certain, from the look in her eyes, that she considered herself in charge of protecting this city. Right now her eyes were set on a dark-haired woman in an expensive-looking blue dress, adorned with jewelry. That seemed like a wonderful target, even though she looked more aware and perceptive than most of the dullards around here. She looked Breton or Cyrodiilic, Falnas could not say. At that moment, the dark-haired woman looked back at the blonde manbitch, and shot her a look of annoyance and hostility. The blonde crossed her arms and stared back, betraying no emotion.

Hmmm, power struggles in this little hamlet. Always good opportunities for profit.

But first, business at hand. Inconspicuously, Falnas got closer to the dark-haired woman, moving effortlessly through the crowd, and resisting the temptation to snatch a coin purse or two while he was at it – no point getting caught and having to make an escape over a few lousy septims when there was a rich woman hung with gold to rob. She was inspecting rolls of silk now, and the gold and diamond brooch she wore on her chest seemed to be worth a small fortune. Brooches were always easy to steal. Necklaces, you had to tear them off, which meant you had to reveal yourself, rings were even harder, and earrings, well, Falnas hated blood. He was a thief, not a vulgar mugger. A job well done was a job the mark didn't notice until Falnas was far away. It was how you didn't get caught.

He shouldered closer to the black-haired woman, and as she held up a sample of silk against the pale sunlight, he walked up to her, meaning to bump into her 'by accident' (always a classic) and unpin the brooch and pocket it in a single, ephemeral movement. Shame he had to stay undetected, a good squeeze in the stuck-up rich woman's tit would have been a nice bonus.

"I have a few questions for you," a Nord-accented female voice interrupted his operation, and he quickly withdrew his hand, cursing silently as a golden opportunity was ruined. The dark-haired woman turned towards the blonde with the axe. "Ugh. Mjoll, 'the Lioness'. Must you pester me at every turn?"

"Another of the Amberblossom employees was found floating face-down in the canal last night."

The dark-haired woman shrugged and gave a contemptuous sneer. "An unfortunate accident, I'm sure?"

"Someone unfortunately falling on his back, holding a knife," the Nord said, her eyes narrowing. "A lot of dead brewers in one week. One mauled by dogs, one disappeared entirely, and now a third, stabbed during the night."

"These streets are dangerous, Mjoll," the other woman replied confidently. The crowd, including Falnas, had all stopped to gawk at the exchange. "It's unfortunate that so many thieves and killers still stalk these streets at night. They kill a man over a septim or two, I've heard."

"I know the streets are dangerous at night," the Nord bit back. "And I want it to stop."

The woman in the dark blue dress gave the Nord a flighty snort. "Report it to the guard, then."

"The guard? You mean those corrupt fools you have in your pocket?"

The other brought a hand to her chest, acting wounded. "But my dear, why _ever_ would you suggest such a thing? I'm only a legitimate businesswoman. I'm not the criminal, those cutthroats at night are." She brought her face closer to the blonde. "I've heard they stop at nothing. I'd watch my step at night, if I were you. This whole vigilante thing is so very dangerous. It'd be unfortunate if the guards found a lioness floating face-down in the canal one morning."

The blonde's face contorted in a snarl, and she took a step forward, grabbing the rich woman by the front of her dress, pushing her backward into the crowd. "You dare threaten me?" the Nord snarled, spit flying from her lips. As the mass of people tried to surge away from the woman in blue, Falnas saw his chance and with his fingertips, he removed the brooch from the woman's dress, sending it sliding down his sleeve in the same motion. "You're a murderer," the Nord continued, "and I will see you brought to justice, mark my words!"

"I suggest you let go of me right now, or I shall report you to the guard for assault," Falnas heard the black-haired woman calmly threaten as he slunk away, slipping through the crowd, his heart racing. The brooch had been the catch of the century. He didn't care much for whatever it was between those women, all he wanted was to find a fence. He knew someone here, pretty thing called Sapphire, had links to the Thieves' Guild, she'd be able to find a buyer for this tacky but valuable eyesore. How anyone could adorn themselves with such a gaudy piece of jewelry was beyond him, but what mattered was that people paid a lot of money for it.

He'd last contacted Sapphire at the Bee and Barb, the local tavern, so he made his way there, hoping she'd still be there, and true enough, he immediately saw her sitting at a table, one leg crossed over the other, sipping a goblet of wine and regarding all the other patrons with her usual look of suspicion mixed with disdain. She was good-looking, for sure, but personality like stone. Falnas briefly wondered why she was that way, but he supposed it was none of his business. He'd asked her if there might be any vacancies within the Thieves' Guild, but every time, she'd simply snorted and told him to come back in a few years.

"Ugh, Falnas," the young woman grunted when he sat down opposite her. "Brought me another fake gold chain, have you?"

He'd never live that one down.

"That was two years ago, Sapphire," Falnas reminded her. "And all my other loot's been good after that."

"Yes, yes," she said, annoyed. "Got anything good? Or just the usual two-septim junk?"

His smile as broad as he could make it, Falnas said, "No junk. At least a thousand. Easily."

Her interest peaked, Sapphire leaned forward. "It's twenty percent for me and the Guild, as always. Now what do you have?"

After briefly looking through the inn to make sure no one was watching them, Falnas took the brooch from his sleeve and laid it out on the table, then gave Sapphire his most winning smile.

He very briefly saw a strange look in the woman's eyes when she beheld the brooch, but it was gone as soon as he'd noticed it. "This'll take some time," she said. "Meet me… uh," she had to think for a while. "You know where the Ratway is?"

Falnas nodded. Of course he knew. It was supposedly a sewer complex, but it was a public secret that the Thieves' Guild had their headquarters in there. If his luck was in, this might just mean she'd lead him to the Guild. Trying to find it alone was suicide – the Ratway was a maze filled with traps, deadfalls, concealed doors and whathaveyou, and if you didn't know where you were going, you got lost and never came back out. That she wanted to meet there meant she'd hopefully show him where the Guild was. She had better, because few thieves could swipe prizes like these.

"Meet me there after nightfall," Sapphire said hastily, rising from her chair and marching through the door, throwing a furtive glance through the common room as she did so.

Falnas saw no reason to be nervous, and ordered himself a goblet of whatever it was Sapphire had been drinking.


	2. Keljarn: Under a Red Moon

**.**

**KELJARN**

**Under a Red Moon**

**Near the city of Whiterun**

Even for one with Nordic blood like Keljarn, the nights in Skyrim were cold if you didn't spend them in the warmth of your home, or between the sheepskins in a comfortable inn room. His parents had emigrated to High Rock a while ago, his mother's homeland, and certainly, its nights were warmer, but Keljarn had always felt his heart lay in Skyrim, and now that he was of age, his mother could no longer stop him from returning home, a decision his father had welcomed, even if he hadn't dared to say it.

Keljarn had no intention of standing at the gates of Sovngarde just yet, but the blood of the warrior flowed through him, this he had always known. His body was built for battle, it was that simple, and the prospect of leading the life of the rich daddy's boy back in High Rock had simply become more and more unattractive as the years passed. So he'd left, back to Skyrim, back to his home, because he simply considered his half-Breton lineage to be nothing more than a detail. He was a Nord, and as a Nord he wanted to live. His parents had offered to give him a sizeable stipend of septims for the journey, but he'd refused, taking only a small amount, enough to cover the costs of the trek. He knew he'd have plenty of opportunities to earn a good living on his own, without his parents' help, much as he loved them.

He walked across the rolling plains, passing a few mills and what looked like a brewery as night fell, and stars rose in the clean, clear Skyrim heaven he had so longed to return to. The stars were beautifully visible. There was a red moon out today, but its light was currently blocked by the only cloud in the sky. He stopped for a moment, relishing the feeling of the heavy hatchet on his shoulder, breathed in the cold air through his nose, and smiled. Home at last.

When he opened his eyes again, they settled on the outline of a city, dark against the night sky, lights dotting its walls. It had been years and years since he'd been in Skyrim, but if his memory served, he was close to the city of Whiterun, and there he'd find the cosy inn room Skyrim's nights were so cold without. He resumed marching, hoping to reach the city gates in an hour or two.

A group of lights danced to his right, a hundred or so metres away. Keljarn stopped again and kept his eye on them. They were moving rather quickly, as if the ones that held them were running. What were they running toward, though?

And then he saw it, barely visible against the night sky was the dark shape of an enormous humanoid, easily standing three or four men high. It was the first time Keljarn had ever seen a giant, but he knew those monsters could easily smash a whole squad of men and mer into the ground. And these fools were running straight for him. In the darkness, he estimated there were only four of them. They ran to their deaths.

Without thinking, Keljarn shrugged off his pack and broke into a run, gripping the hatchet in his hand tightly. As he ran, the sound of a roaring woman came towards him, and he saw one of the lights being thrown backward, sailing through the air and ending up several metres further.

The moon finally broke through as the only cloud at last ceded its place and moved away. In the new light, he saw that three of the humans were still on their feet, dodging the giant's clumsy but terribly powerful blows, and one of them lay a few metres further, moving but doubtless incapacitated for the rest of the fight. The giant himself looked like a grotesque, gangly, gray-skinned tree-trunk.

He had almost reached them now. The only female in the group dodged a wild swing with a spectacular backwards somersault, landed on her feet, drew her bow, and planted an arrow square in the giant's thigh, while one of the males let his axe bite deep into the giant's fingers as it tried to scoop him up. Keljarn heard his own breath, heavy in his ears as he ran.

Even with the arrow in its leg, the giant brought its foot up to stomp the remaining male into the dirt, but he deftly rolled to the side, and the giant's foot did nothing more than shake the ground. The woman nocked another arrow and let fly, this one striking the giant in the shoulder. The giant growled in anger more than in pain, and swung the torn-out tree trunk he used as a club at one of the men, who couldn't dodge in time. Keljarn heard the hard, hollow blow as the giant's club caught the man in the side, lifting him off his feet and sending him to the ground, his ribs doubtless broken and his organs probably turned to paste in his chest.

Frantically, the woman drew her bow again, but her shot hit the giant's satchel, the arrow glancing off and flying end over end through the air. The remaining man took a swing at the giant's thigh, but missed.

With a loud roar, Keljarn launched himself into the air, his fingers hooking into the furs the giant wore. Setting one foot in the back of the giant's knee, Keljarn pushed himself off and up he went, grabbing first the giant's belt, and then the shoulder strap of his satchel. The giant bellowed, finally realizing there was a human clinging to him, and clumsily began to reach for his back, trying to pluck the pesky nuisance off of him. Keljarn heard another zip of an arrow, a short _thud_, and the giant howled again. Grabbing the collar of bones the giant wore around his neck, Keljarn brought his axe up with his free hand. Another arrow zip-thudded into the giant's flesh, and the monster roared again, swaying from the impact, making Keljarn's feet lose their purchase, and he hung free from the giant, only his left hand clinging to the bone necklace, and his body swinging wildly as the giant moved.

"Aela, stop, you'll knock him off!" he heard a man's voice shout below.

No more zip-thuds came, and with one hand, Keljarn sent the head of his hatchet swinging at the back of the giant's bald head. There was a hollow _thwock_ as the axe head chopped into the giant's skull, and blood leaked out from the cleft the axe had made. The giant stood, seemingly paralyzed, for a short moment, and staggered a few steps forward and began falling.

Keljarn threw himself to the side and landed in the grass, painfully bruising himself even as he tried to roll to absorb the blow. His teeth clacked together as he came to a stop against a large boulder, and pain flared up from his shoulder and ribs. A groan escaped from between his clenched teeth.

He opened his eyes again to see the giant lying on his face, the handle of his hatchet still sticking out the back of his head. Both remaining fighters kneeled by one of their companions. "Farkas will be fine," the male called to the woman. "Brains got a bit scrambled, but we won't notice much difference," he added with a chuckle.

"Not so for Athis," the woman called back. "He needs a healer, and quickly."

The man stood up and marched toward the two others. As he painfully got to his feet, Keljarn could see the fallen figure the man had kneeled over slowly rising, holding his head.

"Athis!" the man called, standing over his fallen friend. "Hold on, we'll get you a healer."

"No need," Keljarn said hoarsely, wobbling toward them. "Let me."

The woman looked up at him, "You know any Restoration spells?"

"Just the bare basics," Keljarn said, dropping to his knees next to the fallen man, a Dunmer with white face paint and an elfhawk haircut. He'd been hit by the giant's tree trunk, and the side of his torso was badly dented. Closing his eyes and taking a breath to clear his head, Keljarn let the energies flow through him as he wove a Restoration spell, taught to him by his mother. White globes of light formed from his fingers, hovering toward the injury and enveloping it, the ribs snap-cracking back into place. Keljarn was a whelp at Restoration, so if the man had truly been mortally injured, there was no way he could have saved him, but thankfully for him, he was only suffering from a few broken ribs, and those he could treat. All Keljarn hoped now was that the Dunmer didn't have a collapsed lung, because that would take the skill of a magnificent healer to treat. "I think that took care of the worst. He needs to rest now, though," Keljarn said.

The Dunmer's rapid, panicked breathing calmed and his eyes opened to slits. "Thanks… friend," he managed to utter.

"Stay still, Athis," the kneeling man said. "We'll get you back to the Hall."

The other man had come to stand with them. "Sorry for not being more useful."

Neither of the warriors responded to that, and they and Keljarn rose to their feet. "That was damn spectacular," the woman said, and for the first time Keljarn got a good look at her face. She was beautiful, not like the pampered and made-up Breton maidens his mother had tried to get him to court, with their upturned noses and braided blonde hairs, but like a _real_ woman, naturally beautiful and radiating strength and confidence. "What's your name?" She had war paint on her face, three diagonal slashes of blue that only made her more breathtaking.

The uninjured man chuckled and said to Keljarn, "When you're done being struck dumb, how 'bout answering the lady?"

"Oh, right, sorry. Keljarn."

The man held out his hand. "I'm Vilkas, and this is my brother Farkas. The woman bringing stars to your eyes is Aela. The crybaby on the ground is Athis. Thanks for your help."

Keljarn shook the man's hand. They were brothers alright, one with shoulder-length hair and a stubble beard, the other slightly more powerfully built, with slightly longer hair and a fuller beard. "It's no problem, felt good to get the blood pumping a little bit."

The man with the longer beard laughed. "Ha! That's the way we like it, right brother?"

Vilkas did not seem entirely pleased with his brother's rather naïve candour, but he still said, "You did us a great service today, and we won't forget it."

Aela gave him a smile which made her even more beautiful and said, "Care to accompany us to Jorrvaskr?"

Keljarn had heard the name, but he didn't know what Jorrvaskr was exactly. It didn't matter much either. These people seemed like proud and powerful fighters, and he seemed to have made an impression on them. He knew better than to let such a chance pass.


	3. Siari: Innocence Lost

**.**

**SIARI**

**Innocence Lost**

**City of Windhelm**

Shit, they'd put something in her food. Or her drink. The world began spinning even before Siari had taken her second boot off, and on one bare foot, she desperately tried to keep her balance, snatching at whatever handhold she could find, her vision blurring. Flailing for support, she knocked the candlestick off the cabinet, and the room went dark before she could hear, miles away, the fake silver candlestick hit the ground.

She couldn't call for help. She wouldn't even make it to the door, her head spinning and her knees giving out. After a few drunken staggers, her legs went completely numb and she fell, back down on her bed, one hand feebly snatching at the air.

Before her consciousness faded, she realized this had been sure to happen. There were always loose ends, always ways to trace a murderer, no matter how careful you've been. A witness noticing you from a hidden place, a drop of blood taken to a mysticist, some last words a victim could impart before dying – and every murderer was found. If not by his or her victims, then by another killer who didn't tolerate competition, or by secret organisations employed by the authorities, whose goals weren't to make arrests, but to simply make criminals disappear. Even master killers eventually vanished or turned up dead, and she'd been nothing like those trained assassins, so it had been inevitable that someone had found her.

As Siari's mind sank away into darkness, she confessed to herself that she was getting what she deserved, whatever it was. Even if they had been children, they'd been witnesses, and they'd seen her, standing over the bed of the wicked old hag that ran the orphanage and drawing her blade across their hated tormentor, pushing her hand onto the old woman's mouth to keep her down and to keep her quiet while the life bled from her throat, black in the darkness of the orphanage. She'd pushed as hard as she could, breaking the old fragile nose under her hand with a slow crunching, so the old bitch was perfectly quiet and still, her eyes wide and staring at her killer… had there been recognition in the eyes? Recognition of the face of one that was no longer a child, but not yet a woman? Or had it been a realization of some sort, that she silently confessed to having deserved these last moments, bleeding out like a pig, because of how she'd treated the children? Even those that had grown up to be young women now? Maybe. It hadn't mattered in the end.

And so, as the old woman had gotten her just come-uppance, so would she. She didn't feel much, no pain, no burning inside, just dizziness and nausea. Death by poison had always been told to be much more painful than what people thought, but this… wasn't really… painful, it was… just… like… falling… asleep…


	4. Acrus: Thirst for Knowledge

**.**

**ACRUS**

**Thirst for Knowledge**

**City of Markarth**

Another shop, another disappointment. Acrus was getting tired of eking out a living with sorcery displays in the town squares of Skyrim, depending on the generosity of gawking peasants. Every shop he'd been to had offered the same worthless repertoire of cantrip spells for sale. Oakflesh, Candlelight, Sparks, always the same unimpressive spell tomes passing through his fingers. He'd been warned that finding spells would be difficult when he told his mentor he'd be leaving Cyrodiil for Skyrim, and at the time, he'd nodded and humoured the old man, but it turned out he'd been right, and it made Acrus wish he'd simply enrolled in the Arcane University, back in the Imperial City. But that would have meant travelling across Cyrodiil to get a recommendation from the Mages' Guild in every city, and Acrus simply refused to be sent on errands across the province just to be granted access to the University.

So much to his mentor's protests, Acrus had simply up and left, travelling North to Skyrim, where the magicka was more to his liking, not the word-for-word incantations taught in the University, but a rawer, more primal manipulation of elements. Where in Cyrodiil magic was practiced with the brain, a science to be methodically studied and employed, in Skyrim it was practiced with the soul, instinct and willpower making it possible to bend the laws of nature. Or so he'd heard.

It made sense, then, that not many magic tomes were found in Skyrim's shops, since the mages of Skyrim simply had a different approach to magic. He'd briefly considered enlisting a mentor in Skyrim as he had in Cyrodiil, but mentors were scandalously expensive, and his inheritance had just about run out.

Just as he threw the last of the shopkeeper's tomes back onto the table with a disappointed sigh, the shop owner's assistant, a lovely young alchemist with an elegant blue facial tattoo making a stripe over her nose from one cheek to the other, asked him, "If you're looking for spells, why don't you go to the College of Winterhold?"

Wait, there was a College of magic in Skyrim? And nobody had told him of that?

"Excuse me? College of Winterhold?"

The young apothecary looked suddenly guilty, as if she'd said something she shouldn't have. Still, she clarified, "Well, yes. Almost on the northmost end of Skyrim lies the village of Winterhold. There's supposed to be a College of Magic there."

The old shop owner, an old Breton woman with wicked-looking tribal facial tattoos (what did these Skyrim people have with face tattoos?), promptly scolded, "Muiri! The College already has to turn down most of its applicants. I doubt they'll have the time for a wandering hedge wizard."

Being called a hedge wizard should have made Acrus' blood boil, but he stayed calm, as he always did unless there was magic to be cast, and he asked again, "Can you tell me where this College lies, exactly?"

After an insecure look at her employer, the girl called Muiri explained again, "Um, head Northeast until you come to the sea. Follow the coastline, past Solit – "

"Muiri!" the old woman interrupted again. "There's no point sending this young man all the way to Winterhold for no reason. The College isn't taking new members anyway."

Regardless, the young woman continued, "… past Solitude, keep following the shoreline East, you'll reach Winterhold eventually."

The old shop owner let out a grunting sigh of disappointment and devoted her attention to the mortar she was crushing mountain flowers in.

But Acrus had more important concerns than flowers or potions. He had places to be.


	5. Roë: Night Eyes

**.**

**ROË**

**Night Eyes**

**City of Solitude**

She had to admit to herself, she was somewhat tipsy. But it wasn't like she hadn't earned it. That last damn assignment had been pure misery, slogging through the marshes for two days to find a dragon that hadn't even been there. What kind of gullible halfwit believed in dragons anyway?

She'd been spared the frostbite to her toes unlike Gethor. Skyrim wasn't really a place for Bosmer like them, but when your parents move to the coldest reaches of the world to join the Penitus Oculatus at the Emperor's invitation, you had no choice but to come along. And no matter the blood in her veins, she'd lived in Skyrim most of her life, so she was used to the climate. Gethor, who'd only arrived two years ago, never stopped complaining. Still, for all his curmudgeonly behaviour, she'd bonded well with him. They were the only two Bosmer in the Solitude guard, so they naturally gravitated towards each other, and she'd gotten to know him well enough to smile every time he went off on another complaining spree.

The cold air drove the buzz from her mind, but only a bit. It wasn't like she was staggering, but the mead had flowed freely, and even though she'd gotten used to the high alcohol content in Skyrim's preferred drink, enough had been enough. There'd be a slight hangover tomorrow, but things had remained dignified, and even if they hadn't, no guard's uniform meant no need to mind the exemplary function.

"You going to be alright, Ro'?" Kunod, like most of the guard, had never bothered to pronounce her name correctly. Like most of them, he pronounced her name "Roh" instead of "Ro-ay." Roë didn't attribute it to a lack of respect, just the typical easygoing nature of the people here. "Want me to uh… walk you home?"

Oh, sweet Kunod. He'd been rather taken with her from the start, and not made a secret out of it, in his shy and clumsy way, but she hadn't reciprocated. Not because she had anything against the man, but because the feelings he hoped she had were simply not there. Sometimes she'd wished they had been, because Kunod was attentive and kind, if a bit awkward, but she couldn't change the reality of it.

"No, Kunod, thanks, I'll be fine." Letting him walk her home would cause all sorts of complications. Complications she didn't really need or want, she was perfectly happy just doing her job with the guard and coming home to an empty house.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Go on, get some sleep, didn't you have day duty tomorrow?"

He gave an embarrassed grin. "Yes, but it's at the gate. No one will notice if I'm tired and hung over."

Gethor stumbled out of the tavern, almost crashing into them. Unlike Roë and Kunod, he'd been really going at it, downing one goblet of mead after another. "Ro-ayyyy," he slurred. "When are you and," hiccup, "K-Kunod finally huh… hooking up?"

Oh dear, this was uncomfortable. "Gethor," she said, holding him up, "you need to go to bed, come on."

"I'll take care of him," Kunod said, taking the ailing guardsman from her.

"You twuh…two would make a gr… eat couple," Gethor mumbled. "The struh… strong, powerful Nord _buck_!" he practically shouted the word, "... and the fruh…hail delicate El… Elven beauty!' He made an animalistic growl, accompanied by a randy fist pump.

And here Roë thought this couldn't get any more embarrassing.

"If you two don't get together soon," Gethor garbled, pointing a shaking finger at her, "I'm m… marrying you mysuh… myself, Roë."

"Shush, Gethor. Kunod, make sure he ends up in his bed, alright?"

There was a strange expression on Kunod's face, but she was pretty sure what it meant. "Sure, Ro', I'll get him home safe."

As Kunod half-dragged the drunk-off-his-ass Gethor down the road, she heard drunken off-key singing. "Ro-ayyy! With her silky pale bl- blonde haiiirrrr! Ro-ayyyy! Guardswoman oh so," hiccup, "faiirrrrr!"

"Gethor," Kunod's irritated heavy voice came from down the road. "Knock it off."

Smiling to herself, she hoped the mer didn't recall anything in the morning. If he didn't ask, she wouldn't tell, and Kunod was a firm believer in the holy secrecy of drunken evenings, so with any luck, Gethor would be spared the embarrassing recollection.

Taking a breath and letting out a quiet, dignified burp, Roë set off towards home. Her parents were part of Emperor Titus Mede's close protection team, so they were rarely in town, but even then, she'd bought her own house as soon as she'd been able to, a small but cosy corner cubbyhole with not much more than a bed, a table and a chair, but since she only used her home for sleeping, eating and composing, she needed little more.

Noticing her tread wasn't completely straight, she chuckled to herself, admitting quietly that maybe she was a bit more drunk than she'd thought at first. Still, her mild hangover would be nothing like the rabid horse Gethor would have in his head tomorrow.

Buzzed or not, her trained guardswoman instincts didn't fail her, and as she walked through the narrow alley leading to her house, her senses alerted her to footsteps behind her. It was an unholy hour, and whoever was roaming the streets of Solitude now was either a mead-appreciator like her, or a criminal.

Walking on, pretending she hadn't noticed, she listened intently to the footsteps, trying to count how many there were. Her teeth clenched when she realized there were at least three pairs of them. Even if they were drunkards out too late, she didn't think they'd have good intentions, stalking a lone woman in the middle of the night.

Her hand on the grip of her shortsword, she stopped and spun around. "Whoever you are, and whatever your intentions, I'm a squad chief in the city guard. If you have any ideas in your head, now's the time to reconsider."

There were three, indeed, dressed in expensive finery, two male and one female. Drunk or not, she would have given a lot to have Kunod and Gethor with her now. The man in front gave a shirt, icy cold laugh. "Adorable," he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a frozen grave. "Thinking it can impress us with threats of being in the city guard."

Usually, those threats did the trick, but these three didn't seem fazed in the least. Her breath speeding up, Roë repeated, "Whatever you're planning, reconsider while you have the chance."

The man in front came closer, and when the moonlight hit his eyes, the reflected colour made Roë's breath briefly stop. The pale cold moonlight reflected on red eyes with sickly orange pupils, the eyes mirroring the light like a cat's, except in a blood red colour.

"Whuh… what the shit are you?" Roë breathed, her fingers tightening their grip on the hilt of her shortsword.

"Never you worry, little she-elf," the leader of the stalkers whispered in a cold voice. "Soon all pain and fear will fade."

That removed what little doubt still remained in Roë's mind. These creatures – because they weren't people, not anymore, she didn't know what they were, but they weren't people – were intent on killing her. With a snarl, she unsheathed her shortsword, and in the same movement, swiped it across the leading creature's face, the blade briefly sending a shock through her hand as it thudded into the thing's features, tearing the skin and breaking the bone beneath. The creature shrieked and staggered backward, but the two figures behind him leapt at her. She briefly saw the moonlight reflect off sharp claws at the ends of their fingers.

Time slowed to a crawl, Roë's brain going into overdrive as it always did when she fought for her life, banishing panic from her mind, cold certainty guiding her hand and pure instinct making her body move to avoid injury. The female reached her first, and Roë side-stepped out of the claws' arc, bringing her shortsword down in the back of her attacker's neck, breaking the vertebrae with a wet _thwock_. The remaining male came at her, but her boot shot out, catching him between the legs, briefly lifting him off his feet. The creature howled in pain, but pulled its claw back for another murderous blow. Roë was faster though, and her shortsword cut the air, the blade's edge finding her attacker's throat and half-decapitating him, tearing through carotid, jugular and larynx, sending a black arc of blood flying from the ruin of his throat. He clawed at his gullet, fruitlessly trying to stop the blood spurting from the tear.

The leader, incredibly, rose to his feet again, his face half-split. So fast Roë's eyes couldn't even follow, his body uncoiled like a spring, launching him at her and bowling her over, her sword knocked from her hands.

They came down on the flagstones, the creature's weight knocking the wind from her. One clawed hand came down on her face, pressing it down against the stone. Kicking and thrashing, Roë rained blows on her attacker, but she only succeeded in striking his shoulders and back. Claws flashed in the moonlight as the thing's other hand rose to deliver a terrible blow, and Roë's thrashing wouldn't be able to stop him.

But just as the claw reached its apex, a loud _zzzip_ sounded, followed by a wet _thud_ as the iron tip of a projectile burst out of the creature's chest. It sat on top of Roë, its chest pressed forward and its claws spread, shoulder blades pushed together as the muscles tightened around the projectile that had impaled it.

Then the thing fell over and was still.

Roë scrambled for her weapon, but the man coming toward her lowered his strange contraption and raised his free hand to show he meant no harm to her. "Are you alright, young lady?" he asked, running towards her.

"Uh... yeah, I think," she said back, checking her body for injuries and finding none.

"Good, good. You faced three vampires and lived to tell of it." As he came closer, Roë noticed he was Orsimer. Maybe it was bigoted of her, but she always found it strange to see an Orc wearing human-styled armour and using weapons more complicated than a big club.

"Vampires? Is that what they were?" She'd heard of them in legends and myths, but had always thought them to be an old wives' tale. Apparently not.

"Aye," the Orc said, turning the leader's body over with his boot. "Damn vampires have been a real menace lately."

These were the first vampires she'd encountered. "I can't say I've noticed."

The Orc became somewhat irritated. "Then you haven't been paying attention."

"Alright then."

The Orc didn't know what to make of that reply. "Hmph. The Dawnguard is always looking for new members to combat the vampire menace. Perhaps you could bring yourself to care enough?"

"I don't think so," Roë said. "My place is here."

"Feh. You want to be a guardswoman all your life, be my guest." He pointed his chin at her shortsword, emblazoned with the crest of the Solitude guard. She wasn't wearing the clothes, but that didn't mean she couldn't carry the weapon. "Anyway, there's more of them, at least six in this town. You got three, that leaves at least three more of them to find. Can't waste time chatting with you."

A feeling of dread gripped her throat. "Wait, you said there were more?"

"Aye, but they're my concern, not y – "

"Cack," she swore. "Kunod and Gethor!"

Without waiting for the Orc's reply, she broke into a run, darting toward the street her two companions had staggered into. Behind her, she heard the boots of the Orc thudding into the cobblestones. "You have friends out on the street this late?" he panted.

"Yeah, two."

"If they handle themselves as well as you do, there shouldn't – "

"They would if they were _sober_," Roë snapped at him. She was running as fast as she could, and couldn't waste her breath on pointless chatter.

Rounding the corner, she saw them. Three humanoids, wearing noble-looking, old-fashioned clothing. One large figure still stood, his war hammer out, keeping them at bay. Kunod.

Roaring, she got a new burst of energy, charging at the three vampires, her shortsword held high. But before she could reach them, they noticed her and bolted, dragging a prone figure with them. Kunod no longer had the strength to give chase, falling to his knees.

"Kunod!" she called, skidding to a halt beside him.

"I'm fine," Kunod breathed, "just completely out of breath." He raised his head. "Ro', they've got Gethor, go after them."

"Cack," Roë cursed again, her legs springing back into action, carrying her forward despite screaming muscles and burning lungs. The vampires had fled through the alleys, and in the pitch darkness, Roë tripped on something soft and fell forward, barely getting enough time to break her fall with her hands.

When she tried to get back on her feet, however, her ankle screamed in pain and gave out, sending her to one knee. She tried again to put her weight onto her twisted ankle, but again it buckled out from under her. With a scream of pain and frustration, she had to abandon her pursuit.

"What the Hell is going on h - … chief?" Two guardsmen stumbled onto the scene, holding a lantern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, go after those vampires, they've got Gethor!" she ordered.

"Uh... sergeant?" the other guardsman said hesitantly. "I don't think there's anything we can do for Gethor anymore."

"You don't know that!" she shouted. "Go after them, damn you!"

"Chief... I don't think running after them... well..." He lowered his lantern. "... will do any more good for Gethor."

Not understanding, she turned her head to the lantern and then realized what, or better who, she'd tripped over. In the yellow light of the lantern, she saw Gethor's face, his eyes wide open, his skin stretched over the skull, as if it had shrunk. His lower jaw hung open in a terrified grimace.

"Is that..." Kunod's out of breath voice came nearer, "... Gethor?"

"Yeah," Roë said, defeated. She turned her eyes away. "Damn it."

"They got him alright," the Orc said. "Must have drained him for strength as they ran. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't help him anymore," Kunod said, breathing hard but sounding determined. "What in Frostfire did this? He looks... sucked dry." He sighed. "I should have protected you better, Gethor."

"Vampires did this," the Orc said. "If you want to help your friend, help us combat the Vampire menace."

"Who's 'us'?" Kunod asked.

"The Dawnguard, my friend. The ancient order dedicated to wiping out the Vampires. We're always looking for new members."

Kunod stood looking down at Gethor's body for a moment, then said, "Alright, sign me up."

The Orc grinned broadly, baring his sharp teeth and two lower tusks. "Good man! What say you, blondie? Maybe seeing what these creatures do to people might change your mind? The way you handled those other three shows me you're cut out for the job."

"Yeah, but the guard…"

"Who cares about the guard now?" Kunod snapped. "Did they ever care about you? They even told you to your face you'd never get past squad chief because you can't keep your opinions to yourself. And look at Gethor!"

She hated to admit it, but he was right. The guard was corrupt anyway, her own superiors working against her, telling her she had to look but she wasn't allowed to find, and telling her straight out they'd stop her from getting promoted for as long as they lived. And seeing poor Gethor lying there, drained as if by a giant spider, she decided she couldn't let this go unavenged. "Fine. I'm with you."


	6. Falnas: A Chance Occurrence

**.**

**FALNAS**

**A Chance Occurrence**

**City of Riften, entrance to the Ratway**

Falnas looked around skittishly, making sure no one was following or observing him. If these people were going to welcome him into the Guild, he'd better make sure he didn't appear like a blundering amateur. It was getting cold, and the moon reflected off the canal, the silvery light making it all appear even more chilly. The entrance to the Ratway was on the lowest tier of the city, where wooden jetties and walkways were built on the canal that formed a ring around the city centre. The lowest tier stank of dead fish and rotting water vegetation. How people could live in such a place was beyond him. He stomped his feet on the wooden walkway against the cold, but immediately stopped when he heard how much noise it made. Dammit, all he could do was hug himself and shiver.

"Falnas," a familiar voice hissed behind him. In the open doorway stood Sapphire, a scowl on her face. "Stop standing there like an idiot and get in here."

Falnas ducked into the doorway and found himself in complete darkness as Sapphire closed the door behind him. Feeling around in the dark, his hand touched a soft surface with the texture of hard leather. Instantly, a hand slapped down hard on his.

"Keep your paws to yourself!" Sapphire's voice snapped at him. The next moment, there was a bright glow of light as a torch was lit, and Falnas found himself looking at Sapphire's angry face. Her fault for leaving him in the darkness.

"Now quit goofing off and come on," she ordered, leading the way through the tunnels. They weren't high enough to stand up in, and Falnas quickly began to feel pain in his lower back. He didn't complain and stalked after the woman.

"Tripwire," Sapphire indicated, not stopping. Falnas stepped over it and stayed close to her. It was dark, but he certainly didn't mind having a nice ass to look at while he crept.

"Floor plate." One of the tiles had no moss or filth on it, the sure sign of a pressure plate. Falnas didn't want to know what would happen if he stepped on it, but he guessed it had something to do with the small holes in the masonry on either side. She led him into a side corridor, and then another, and it was hard for Falnas to stay oriented. All these corridors looked the same with their wet masonry, illuminated only by the light of Sapphire's torch, and their rotten sewer stench.

"Another tripwire, floor plate right after."

Falnas stepped over the tripwire and made an extra large step to avoid the pressure plate. Sapphire pointed up. "Crystal chimes." Small, barely visible crystals hung from a thin thread. They weren't dangerous as such, but they made a terrible noise when brushed against, alerting anyone in the vicinity. "Step over this moss-covered part." Falnas did so. Most likely a deadfall, probably with interesting spikes at the bottom.

Another left turn, another right, and they came to a door. "Now if you value your life," Sapphire said to Falnas, "you'll keep your mouth shut and speak only when spoken to."

He didn't much care for the arrogant tone, but he wasn't intent on squandering his possibly only chance to let the Thieves' Guild know who he was. Sapphire inserted a strange block-shaped key into the lock and the door creaked open.

They emerged into a large round vault, ringed by water, with four walkways leading to a round stone platform in the middle. Three people stood on the platform, one burly-looking Nord with shoulder-length hair and a row of daggers carried on a bandolier across his chest, a Breton in his forties with a shaved head and black leathers, and… oh shit, the woman with the blue dress! Oh, this was trouble. Falnas checked, and was about to bolt for the exit when Sapphire whispered to him, "Listen to what they have to say, you idiot!" She subtly pushed him in the back to get him moving.

Swallowing laboriously, Falnas shuffled to the platform, avoiding the eyes of the black-haired woman.

"This him?" The Nord said, his voice heavy with Skyrim dialect.

Sapphire merely answered, "Yes."

It was the Breton's turn to speak. "Mate, you may be the biggest moron I've ever met, but you're not too stupid to realize who we are, roight?" He spoke in a strange dialect, probably one from the farthest reach of High Rock.

"The uh, Thieves' Guild, correct?" Falnas said, taking care not to sound intimidated and succeeding almost perfectly.

"That's roight, the Guild. Boy's at least got 'alf a brain in that 'ead of 'is," the Breton said in his rough voice.

"So," the Nord asked him. "You must be new to Skyrim? Only explanation I can think of. That, or you're stupider than a gutted fish."

The woman in blue still hadn't spoken, and he hadn't met her gaze yet.

"I don't know about stupid," Falnas said, sounding as confident as he dared, "but I'm a damn good thief, which is why you've called me here, correct?"

"'Good' is relative," the Nord said, making Falnas' heart speed up. "You've got fast and nimble fingers, sure, but your choice of marks, well…" he chuckled. "It leaves a lot to be desired."

Finally, the woman in blue spoke. "I hope for your sake that you haven't the faintest idea who I am?"

"Indeed I don't," Falnas said.

"Show some respect for the lady, yeah?" the bald Breton commanded.

Falnas cleared his throat and repeated, "Indeed I don't, _madam_."

"Good," the woman in blue said imperiously. "Not knowing who I am just saved your life. For now."

This conversation wasn't really going well. Falnas realized the gold the brooch was worth was the least of his worries now. The Thieves' Guild were all about business, so they weren't prone to simply killing off people who displeased them like those Brotherhood maniacs, but that didn't mean they never decided someone had to be shut up for good, and they certainly didn't mind breaking a few bones, knowing full well the guard looked the other way as long as they didn't drop any dead bodies. And Falnas didn't feel like being beaten to a pulp.

"Like I said, madam," Falnas repeated, "I haven't had the honour of learning your identity. I just arrived in Riften this morning."

"I believe 'im," the shaved Breton said. "'e dun't talk like a bloody moron, so let's give 'im the benefit of the doubt." The man talked like he had a cold, as if his nose was clogged.

"Agreed," the Nord said, making Falnas release an imperceptible breath of relief. "Let's chalk his mistake up to ignorance rather than a death wish." He quickly added, "If that's alright with you, lady Maven?"

The woman was silent for a while, then said, with condescending arrogance, "Yes, I suppose we can't punish people for being stupid." Phew, looked like he'd dodged the arrow. "Your name?"

"Falnas, madam."

"How quaint. My name is Maven Black-briar, and stealing from me is either very foolish, or very suicidal. Luckily for you, I'm prepared to attribute your blunder to foolishness this once. I shall leave the rest to Delvin and Brynjolf." She threw her cloak over her shoulder and turned away. "Do not expect this kind of mercy from me again."

The eyes of the Breton and the Nord standing in front of him were urgent. Right, he supposed he had to thank the conceited woman. "It won't happen again, madam, and I won't forget your mercy." If there was one thing Falnas learned in his life, it was that honour and defiance only sent you faster to the grave, so if he had to grovel to stay alive, he would. Humiliation was better than death every time.

"You had better not." And with that, she strode away, towards a giant of a man with a warhammer carried across his back, who'd been standing in the shadows until now. They left the cistern through a door in the side. Probably a short cut back to the city for important people.

"As you may 'ave gathered, mate, you stole from the most big-'eaded bitch in town." The deference was apparently only a matter of courtesy in her presence. "That's embarrassin' for us, you see."

"We don't take kindly to freelancing in our city," the Nord continued. "If you're a thief in Riften, you're either with the Guild, or you get beaten all the way to the city gate. The choice is yours, either you join the Guild, or you wake up outside of the city gates with a few broken bones and nothing but your undergarments."

Ultimatum or not, Falnas had hoped for this question. "Are you asking me to join the Thieves' Guild?"

"No, you pillock," the Breton said, irritated. "We're _tellin'_ you you're either joinin' the Guild or learnin' a trade."

Smiling broadly, Falnas said, "I'm too lazy to make an honest living, and I'm not about to let my considerable thieving skills go to waste. I'm ready for a job right now, if you've got one to give."


	7. Keljarn: Take Up Arms

**.**

**Keljarn**

**Take Up Arms**

**City of Whiterun**

The innkeeper at the Bannered Mare, Whiterun's seemingly only inn, hadn't been difficult when he asked for a room in the dead of night. Some innkeepers were fussy or angry when woken up for a room booking during the night, but Keljarn never cared. It was part of the job.

The sun shone in through the cracks between the shutters, painting lines of pale yellow light on the sheets and the floor. Keljarn's sleep had been short but refreshing, and first order of business for him was to find this Jorrvaskr place the four hunters had spoken of.

Or maybe that wasn't really the very first thing to do. He'd look a fool if he walked in there with just a stupid woodcutter's hatchet on his back. He'd always figured that those fancy weapons were for showmen and pretentious want-to-look-tough types, but this would probably be a good time to buy an actual weapon instead of the old hatchet with its notched head and leather-wrapped grip.

He'd passed a shop on the way to the Bannered Mare, a small smithy, from the looks of the sign outside. They'd have to be pretty stupid to hang out a sign with an anvil if it wasn't a smithy. Or maybe an anvil shop.

A woman stood outside the shop, holding a strip of iron between a pair of tongs and inspecting it carefully. When she noticed him, she gave him a nod and said, "Welcome to Warmaiden's. If you're here to buy stuff, head right on in. If you want something repaired… Well, I've got back orders for an entire week, so it'll take a while."

"Nope," Keljarn said to the tanned Imperial woman. "No repairs, I need a replacement for this old thing." He pointed his thumb at the hatchet on his back.

"Daresay you do," she said. "No offence. Well, my husband will help you inside."

"Alright, thanks."

The man tending the counter in the shop was a bear of a man, even by Nord standards. His arms were as thick as most people's thighs. Despite his impressive physique though, he looked friendly and cheerful. "Welcome to Warmaiden's," he greeted in a deep and gravelly, yet somehow strangely pleasant voice. "Got blades, helmets, pretty much anything to suit your needs." Cocking his head at the old rusty woodcutter on Keljarn's back, he added, "And looks like you've already got one need right there."

"You've got that right," Keljarn admitted. "Got anything I can replace this old thing with?"

He let out a hoarse chuckle. "Adriana forges just about anything, and everything she forges is top quality. Including the axes." He walked over to a weapon rack. All kinds of sharpened weaponry hung from the rack, including several axes. Most of Keljarn's friends in High Rock swore by the sword, but Keljarn had tried them both, and decided nothing could replace the feel of a weighted axe head lending power to a blow. Swords were just… too damn light.

"You've got your basic garden-variety wood-and-iron axe right here," the huge smith explained, slapping the head of a very plain-looking, but excellently forged axe. "It's cheap, efficient, and does the job."

"M-hm."

"Full metal axe forged in one piece costs double," he went on. "But it lasts much longer."

"How much for one of those?"

He slapped the wood and iron axe again. "A hundred for the regular, two for the full metal."

Keljarn kept a mental count of the gold in his pouch and the expenses he still expected. "I think I can afford a bit more."

The bearded man's grin widened. "What I like to hear. This thing," he picked up an axe with a faint yellow sheen to the metal, "has a corundum-iron alloy head. Edge is keener and lasts much longer. Most iron axes dull after a bit of use, but not this. Regular's a hundred and fifty, full metal's three hundred." After looking at the weapon rack more closely, he added, "But seems I don't have any regulars in stock anymore, and Adriana's struggling to keep up with all the demand, so there's either a full metal available right now, or a regular in… say, a week or so?"

That didn't matter, he had enough. "Full metal will be fine."

"One-handed, right?"

Keljarn nodded. He preferred to have a hand free for other uses, including what few spells he knew. Still grinning, the weaponsmith took the last full metal corundum alloy axe from the rack. "Wise buy, my friend. Go see Adriana if you'd like some extras."

"Extras?"

He shrugged, "Yeah, etchings, or a leather grip, things like that. It's all free with the purchase except etchings. They cost extra unless it's a simple bit of text, like initials or a name."

Something wasn't clear though. "Wait… your wife does the smithing? Not you?"

The man laughed. "That's right. People's jaws drop every time they realize. My wife's the smith, I just sell the things. And mark my words, her weapons are almost as good as Eorlund's, and his only have the edge because he's working the Skyforge."

Who, the what? "Eorlund? Skyforge?"

He chuckled again. "Adriana can explain it better than I can, and she loves to chat during work. Might as well ask her to talk your ear off about the Skyforge."

"Thanks, I'll do that."

The lady in question was nowhere near the constant yakker her husband had described her as, but she proved quite sociable, offering to wrap the axe in leather bands for a better grip and less blisters, and while she did so, she asked if he was new to Whiterun.

"Does it show?" Keljarn asked with a grin.

"Mm… yes and no," the smith said, carefully wrapping long leather strips around the axe handle. "Everyone looks new here, in a way."

"Your husband said I should ask you about something called the Skyforge?"

She grinned as she took a metal strip and bent it around the axe handle so it would stop the leather from coming undone at the top. "Well, I'm not _the_ best smith in Skyrim. Eorlund Gray-Mane holds that honour. He works the Skyforge over at Jorrvaskr. All I can do is do the best I can and hope I come as close to him as possible."

Well, she was certainly gracious about not being the best. "I was told to meet some people at this Jorrvaskr place. Can you tell me where it is exactly?"

"Oh, sure, looking to join the Companions, huh?"

He shrugged. "Looking to learn more about them, at least. See if they're worth joining."

She took a small round metal plate and heated it. "Oh they're a good lot. A bit too uppity, some of them, but the world would be worse off without them, that's for sure." She placed the glowing plate against the bottom of the axe and gave it a few gentle taps, then cooled the haft to make the iron bond together. "There you go, all done."

"Thank you, uh… Adriana?"

She let out a clear and pleasant laugh. "Usually I prefer 'mistress Avenicci', but for you I'll make the exception."

Keljarn took the axe she held out at him and grinned. "You are most gracious. My name's Keljarn, and it's been a pleasure doing business with you and your husband."

"Likewise, stay safe out there."

He fully intended to. Strolling down the streets of Whiterun in the pale winter sun, he treated himself to a fresh handful of snowberries, sold at a market stand, and thought to himself that it was damn good to be here, in Skyrim, the country he'd always considered his true homeland, not High Rock. Two children ran past him, one girl with long blonde braids and a boy with fair hair in a bowl cut. As they ran, he heard the girl squeal, "Tag! You're it!"

A rather skittish-looking Redguard woman, who looked like she had something to hide, pointed him to Jorrvaskr, a large mead hall at the top of a hill, at the very edge of town. He passed an old man preaching full of passion about Talos, and full of contempt for the Empire, who had "sold Skyrim to the Aldmeri Dominion". Right, the Empire had all the trouble in the world quashing the rebellion of the so-called Stormcloaks, radical Nord nationalists who were bent on driving out the Imperials and their Altmer leash-holders. Even though Keljarn felt a true Nord, he knew it wasn't his fight.

As he ascended the stairs, he heard the sounds of sparring: the thudding of metal on wood, the thwacking of arrows into targets, the grunts and growls of exertion and competition. All he had to do was follow his ears. Going higher up the stairs, he came to a large oval hall, made up of broad wooden beams supporting a sort of turtle shell made of heavy wooden boards. It almost looked like an inverted boat. The shield motifs carved into the walls made it clear that this was the place he needed to be.

He didn't have to take a breath or close his eyes to compose himself. He simply pushed the door open and walked in.

A young woman with a sharp face and two stripes of red war paint on each cheek raised her head from the shield she was polishing. "Just because a door's unlocked doesn't mean you can just walk on in." Her tone was nothing short of confrontational. "I don't remember this being the church of Mara."

She was the only person in the hall, even though there were plenty of chairs at the tables, which were set into a U-pattern for maximum enjoyment during mead binges, with in the middle the smouldering charcoal remains of what looked to be a huge fire. Keljarn was somewhat dubious as to whether or not it was a good idea to build such a needlessly oversized fire in a wooden mead hall, but he supposed the inhabitants knew best. He certainly hoped they weren't all as unfriendly as this one, though. "I'm not here for worship," he replied curtly.

The woman went back to polishing her shield. "Let me guess, another farm boy thinking fighting's the same as chopping wood 'round back?"

Keljarn knew her type. People who acted all belittling to hide their own insecurity. It was usually the new cubs in groups such as these who had the most attitude. The more experienced members were usually calmer, they didn't feel like they constantly had to prove themselves, and these wet-ears usually did. He was far too smart to let such people get him riled up, so he simply said, "Some of your people should be expecting me. Woman called Aela, and uh... two brothers. One mer with an elfhawk haircut." Figured that he only managed to remember the woman's name. Ah well, he wasn't made of stone and had never claimed to be.

At least dropping her name had some effect, because the woman with the sharp face raised her head again. "That so? So what'll you be doing then? Fetching the mead?"

Keljarn always wondered about those people. Did they actually think this kind of thing made an impression? All it did was draw attention to their own insecurities. "I'm sure I'll be told what my job is by people with bigger responsibilities than shield polishing." Just because he didn't want to be provoked, didn't mean he couldn't gently bump this big-mouth off of her imaginary pedestal.

The woman seemed to get the message, glaring at him and then devoting her attention to the shield again. "Aela's out back with Farkas and Vilkas."

He couldn't resist adding a snide little "Thanks" before crossing the hall and opening the door on the other side. She was out back alright, the first thing his eyes fell on as he blinked against the sunlight, which reflected on the sweat matting her tanned skin, her muscles taut as she held the bowstring drawn, her eyes focused on the target and nothing else. Then she released the bowstring and the arrow found its way to the target, striking it in the third-most central ring. It was an impressive shot, to be sure. There were probably even more precise bowmen and –women in the world of archery tournaments, but Keljarn doubted if those people could also skin a boar, find their way in a dense forest, or take a few punches and have a mug of ale afterwards.

On the other side of the practice field, which was hemmed in by a wooden palisade, the two brothers he'd fought the giant with were sparring, the brother with the longer beard wielding a two-handed sword, attacking with broad swings, the other holding a one-handed blade and limiting himself to dodging his brother's blows. Keljarn thought to himself how much nerve they must have, because the wide sweeps of the two-handed sword looked like its wielder wasn't holding back, and one miscalculation could lead to serious injuries, even in a practice match. As he saw them in the daylight, he was surprised at how hairy these men were, even for Nords. Their forearms were covered with dark hairs and the stubble of their beards went all the way up to just below their eyes, which they'd blackened with soot. They had a certain animalistic appearance to them, and it wasn't just their Nord blood.

A young woman sat on one of the benches ringing the sparring field, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and watching intently as the two brothers went at it, her eyes shifting as she followed every move, studied every feint and noticed every shift. For some reason, her war-paint was made up of nothing more than a thin line going down from her bottom lip over her chin. She didn't look Nord, more Breton or Imperial. Whatever she was though, she was clearly in deep concentration.

"Huh, was wondering when you'd show up."

Aela's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She still stood where she had been, but her head was turned to him as she nocked another arrow.

"Yeah, figured I'd come see what this whole Companions thing is about."

The two brothers had noticed him too, and they broke off their training to come meet him.

"Care for a round of mead?" the huntress asked him. "We'll answer all your questions inside. Come on."

"All this sparring is making me thirsty, so good idea," the larger of the two brothers agreed. "Ria, get some mead for our guest, would you?"

The young woman who'd been concentrating so hard on the training promptly gave a short bow of her head and answered, "Of course, Companion." With that, she scooted off to the hall and disappeared inside. That bitchy woman inside hadn't been kidding about fetching the mead.

The smaller (well, less huge) brother put his hand on Keljarn's shoulder. "Come inside, friend. You've done us a great service, and you're welcome at our table."

They didn't need to ask him twice. When they came back inside, all the Companions took their places, which were apparently fixed, and motioned for him to take an empty chair between Aela and the woman with the sharp face and the snarky attitude. She seemed none too happy to have him at her side, but that wasn't Keljarn's problem. He'd just have to devote his attention to Aela then.

The woman they'd called Ria arrived with one large ceramic bottle of mead, set it on the table and immediately ran back off to get more. The larger brother immediately reached for the bottle and poured his cup full.

"Farkas," his brother said with a weary sigh. "What kind of hospitality is that? Guests first, remember?"

Farkas chuckled sheepishly. "Right, forgot." He held the bottle out to Keljarn. "Honoured guest?" There was no sarcasm in the addressing, unlike as was usually the case when people used an honorific these days.

Had his Breton blood been more dominant, Keljarn would have begun a series of polite refusals and insistences that they should partake first, and had the Companions been Breton, they would have countered with insistences of their own until the whole interaction consisted of nothing but apologies and after-yous and I-insists, but they were all Nords, and when a Nord offers you a drink, you don't beat around the bush and start babbling pleasantries, you take it and drink to his health. So he held out the cup set in front of him at the table and allowed Farkas to fill it, though the man didn't do so without spilling on the table and not caring a bit that he did.

"To your health," Keljarn said, raising his cup and taking a swill that was sizeable enough not to look effeminate, but also not so greedy he seemed like a septimless beggar gulping down his drink because the price was right.

"So," Aela asked him as Farkas filled her cup, spilling even more of the mead on the wooden table. "What do you know about the Companions?"

Keljarn took another drink of mead (it was of decent quality but clearly a mass-produced batch to be drunk quickly and without too much discerning) and said, "Well, I know you take on dangerous work for good coin. I know you're a close-knit group of fighter-hunters." And to flatter them ever so slightly, he added, "And I know people respect you, but they know not to mess with you."

Aela smiled, looking satisfied. "That's mostly it, I suppose." She brought her cup to her lips and drank, not with a dignified, feminine sip, but with two greedy gulps. She wiped her mouth with her wristband. Maybe it was Keljarn's Breton lineage, but seeing a woman drink like this was amusingly surprising.

Then again, it's not like he had expected a company of dignified mead samplers with uplifted pinkies and pencil-thin moustaches.

Farkas filled his brother's cup, then his own again, and then finally the one of the unpleasant sharp-faced woman, which Keljarn had to pass to him and then back to the woman.

Lastly, the cup of the focused girl was filled. She'd brought two more flasks of mead and then had taken her seat next to the unpleasant woman. From the way these people treated each other, Keljarn could make up a rough idea of the pecking order. His cup had been filled first, because he was a guest of course, but then the order hadn't really mattered for the next three. If it had, Aela's cup would have been filled before or after both brothers', who were clearly around equal in standing, which meant Aela ranked more or less the same. Then had come the more junior members, first the bitchy one and then the mead-fetcher herself. It was a bit of a risk, but it'd make a good impression if he made it known he already understood the dynamics in the group, so he asked, "So isn't it difficult to make decisions without singular leadership?"

"What makes you think we don't have singular leadership?" the less-bearded brother asked, looking amused.

"Well," Keljarn explained, "You wouldn't be a disciplined and efficient companionship if you didn't have at least a vague hierarchy. Seems to me like you three are the people with the most, and around the same, level of authority. So there must be the occasional difference in opinion, right?"

Both brothers laughed, and Aela joined in with a chuckle. From his other side, he heard the woman snort in derision.

"You seem to think we're the only Companions," the less huge brother pointed out. Ah, of course, he'd been making assumptions in his haste to show off his perceptive abilities. "We have a leader, but he leaves most of the day-to-day affairs to us."

"Kodlak doesn't get out much anymore," his brother added.

"And he's not a leader as such," Aela said. "But we hold him in the highest respect and follow his guidance."

"Ria," one of the brothers said. "Why don't you go check on Athis, see if he needs anything?"

Both Keljarn and the young woman sensed that she was being sent out of the hall for a reason, he saw it in her eyes, but she didn't question the veiled order and rose. "Right away, Companion."

"You too, Njada," Farkas told the unpleasant woman at Keljarn's side. "Ria may need help."

Her reaction was considerably less deferent. With a snort, she got to her feet and said, "Yeah, right," stomping off after Ria.

When they had both left, Aela said, "Ria and Njada are young and inexperienced, and from the way you fought that giant, we're guessing you no longer need to learn the basics. Here's our offer. If you agree to join the Companions, we'll skip the whole initiation period. You'll be able to join us to assist on missions as apprentice right away instead. When we're confident in your abilities, you'll be able to undertake missions alone, or even ask one of the apprentices to accompany you."

Keljarn blinked, somewhat surprised by the offer. "But you don't know the first thing about me?"

Farkas chuckled. "Let's just say all three of us are really in touch with our instincts. Right Vilkas?"

"What my brother means, is that we're good at sensing people." And somewhat reluctantly, he added, "And that we feel this is suitable recompense for saving the life of a Companion. Or more than one."

Aela seemed a bit less embarrassed by the matter, saying it right out. "If you hadn't arrived, there's no telling how that battle with the giant had turned out."

"This is a one-time deal," Vilkas said. "It's... a bit unusual, that's why we've sent Njada and Ria out, but if you accept, you'll be set to the same status as Njada and Athis. And Ria, pretty soon."

"Which means," Farkas grunted, "We'll be needing some new blood soon. That mead doesn't fetch itself."

Keljarn found the offer almost too good to be true, but there was one thing he was worried about. "Won't they be jealous? I mean, they've been here for a while already..."

Vilkas shrugged, refilling his cup and leaning back in his chair. "There will be some... resentment, mostly from Njada, but it's up to you to prove you were worth our trust, isn't it?"

They had a point. "And your leader?"

"He knows, and he trusts us when we say your arm is strong enough. Skjor might have reservations, so he'll probably be the first to take you out on a job when he gets back."

He'd heard good things about the Companions. They'd struck him as dedicated and welcoming, and if they weren't the epitome of Nordic fighting spirit and comradeship, Keljarn didn't know what was. "I have to say, when I decided to return to Skyrim, I did it to fill... a hole in my heart, I think. Not just to come home, but to be part of something. To find purpose. And – "

"I think he means he's in," Farkas interrupted, laughing boisterously.

Vilkas grinned along with him and clinked his cup against Keljarn's. "Welcome, Companion."

Aela said nothing, but reached for the second bottle of mead.

"I think this warrants a drink or two, Aela?" Farkas said, emptying the bottle into her cup.

"I swear," Aela said, grinning and opening the second bottle. "When it comes to not training and pouring yourselves full of mead, any excuse is good for you two, isn't it?"


	8. Siari: With Friends Like These

**.**

**SIARI**

**With Friends Like These...**

**Somewhere**

It hadn't been poison, but a sleeping draught. That wasn't necessarily a good thing, Siari realized as she woke up with a pounding headache. She was in a shack somewhere, it seemed, but where, she had no idea.

"Waking up, are we?" a mocking woman's voice came from behind and above her. Siari whipped her head around to see a masked woman sitting on the skeleton of a wooden bunk bed, one leg hanging down over the side, her pose completely casual. There was something about the dark leathers she wore, they seemed to subtly distort the light around them. Whoever this was, this wasn't a first-timer like Siari had been.

Siari said nothing – how could she – and the woman introduced herself.

"My name," she said, "is Astrid. I'm certain you've never heard of me, but you've heard of the organisation I am part of." Still sitting casually on the bunk bed, she continued, "The organisation you stole from."

Siari frowned, nonplussed. She'd killed someone, not stolen. Maybe they had the wrong person?

"Oh, you didn't steal anything physical," the masked woman said with a chuckle, her eyes a cold blue above her dark leather mask. "You stole something far more precious. You see, our organisation doesn't deal in goods as such."

Siari still had no idea what she was on about.

"Our commodity is death," the masked woman said. "We are contracted to assassinate a mark, and we take those matters seriously. Recently, a young boy in Windhelm contacted us through the Dark Sacrament. Great was our surprise however, when our assassin arrived at the mark's place of residence, and found her already dead, her throat cut in an almost embarrassingly amateur fashion."

By the Nine, Siari realized. She'd killed someone marked by this woman's group. And there was only one assassins' group in Skyrim that mattered. Its name was often whispered, but none had ever seen its members, except maybe those who'd been granted a brief glance before their lives were taken. Siari's gut clenched when she realized which organisation this woman belonged to, and she quietly wished she'd been slipped a poison rather than a sleeping draught. Her heart beat hard in her chest.

"I can tell from your eyes that you've come to the realization of whom you're dealing with," the masked woman said, her voice amused. "You know the Black Hand doesn't let a kill be taken without taking one back in return."

All Siari could do was give the woman a fearful and not-understanding look. These people were going to kill her, and in a slow and painful way, but why hadn't they done so already?

"Oh not you," the woman calling herself Astrid said with a chuckle. "We didn't bring you here to kill you, then you'd be dead already. You've stolen a kill from the Dark Brotherhood. A kill is due, and a kill shall be returned. Look behind you."

Reluctantly, because she didn't trust turning her back on the masked woman, Siari looked behind her. There were three people sitting on their knees, their hands bound, each with a bag over his or her head.

"These three," Astrid said behind her, "have been captured to give you the opportunity to repay the kill you stole. One of the people in this room has a contract on their head. These three will tell you their story, and then you must determine who the mark is. And kill that person."

Siari had no idea what this was about, but she decided to listen to the captives' stories before deciding whether or not she'd play this game along.

"You, mercenary! Speak!" Astrid commanded imperiously.

"Puh… please," the first captive whimpered. "I've done nothing to you… let me go!"

"I said speak, not whimper!"

The man in soldier clothes shrank under Astrid's command, and began stammering. "I'm… I'm a mercenary. I fight when told to. I've… I've done nothing wrong."

"Ugh," Astrid grunted. "What a snivelling coward. Then again, a mercenary like him, could have made a lot of enemies. You, housewife, speak!"

The woman in the middle immediately let loose. "You bastards! How _dare_ you abduct a hard-working homemaker! Release me now, and I promise my husband won't come back with his associates to burn this place to the ground and put your heads on spikes!"

"Spirited," the masked woman remarked. "But one can't help but wonder how many other people her husband and his 'associates' have wronged over the years. Lastly, furball!" She clicked her tongue.

The last captive, a Khajiit by the looks of him, began with a nervous chuckle, "Ah yes, you have the honour of addressing Vasha, obtainer of goods, defiler of daughters, and taker of lives. If you tell me someone wants me dead, I can only feel flattered."

"His kind of arrogance isn't admirable, it's foolish," the masked woman on the bunk bed said. "And as you've heard, he's probably made quite a few enemies with those habits of his."

Siari heard something drop down on the hay next to her, a dagger the woman had thrown down. "Now you must decide. One of the people in this room has a contract for their elimination. All you have to do is take the dagger and draw it across the throat of the mark. Or stab it between their shoulder blades, or something similarly effective." With a cynical chuckle, she added, "If you guess wrong, you can always guess again."

Siari stared at the dagger.

"A kill is due, a kill must be repaid," the woman above her said again. "Either you use your dagger, or I use mine." The threat couldn't be more clear.

She'd killed once, and it hadn't been that difficult. It wouldn't be any more difficult either. Maybe it wasn't right to kill these people, but there was no right or wrong, Siari had learned that at a very young age. There were only smart decisions and dumb decisions. 'Deserve' had nothing to do with any of it, and it didn't matter to her what these people did or did not deserve. This was kill or be killed, and she had no intention of dying.

Siari knew who really had the contract. The way the masked woman had worded her demand had made it perfectly clear. But she'd play the game as it had been requested of her.

She picked up the dagger and walked to the Khajiit, kneeling down behind him. At least the Nord and the woman had shown some emotion, whether it was fear or anger didn't matter. But this Khajiit had remained arrogant even with a bag over his head. He clearly thought she wouldn't have the guts.

"I can feel you're there," the Khajiit said. "Surely you won't be so foolish as to – "

She cut his throat, severing his jugular and carotid, and cutting through his larynx, instantly silencing him. Blood spurted from his opened throat, and he fell forward, kicking and spasming as his life sprayed out over the dirty old carpet in the middle of the shack. As they heard him gurgle, the other prisoners reacted, the Nord whimpering even louder in terror and shock, and the woman letting out a clear and unmistakable sigh of relief. It was these reactions that decided the order in which they would die.

Without hesitation, Siari stood up, walked to the next prisoner and kneeled behind her. When she felt Siari's hand over her face, pulling it backward to make her throat more accessible, the woman began sobbing and begging, but Siari didn't listen. She simply drew the blade across the housewife's throat, opening her arteries as she'd done with the Khajiit, at whose fate the woman had let out a sigh of relief, caring only that she hadn't been the one to die.

Siari let the woman fall forward as the pressure of her blood lessened, her skull falling onto the boards with a loud _bonk. _

"By the Nine," the Nord begged. "Please, please don't kill me! I don't have a contract on my head! I'm not the one you want, please, please!"

Sairi had heard enough. She rose and kneeled behind the Nord mercenary.

"Whoever you are," the Nord kept whimpering, "please! I'll reward you, I'll give you anything! Please just please don't – "

"… kill me." Astrid finished his sentence as Siari calmly let her blade carve its third throat. The Nord died as the others had, falling forward in a pool of his own blood.

"My, my," the masked woman said, sounding satisfied. "Three kills, aren't we the overachiever?"

Siari merely shrugged.

"So," Astrid asked. "Which one had the contract?"

Oh, please. You've given it away from the first moment. The way you worded your demands.

Siari raised her dagger and pointed it straight at Astrid.

The masked woman laughed and said, "Not bad, kid. Not bad. Interesting that you'd still kill those three, though."

There was nothing interesting about it. Astrid had expected her to kill at least one of them, regardless of who had the contract. It hadn't been about making the right choice, it had been about doing as you were told, about killing even if you didn't know why. None of those three had deserved to die, but life wasn't about deserving. They'd had to die, and so Siari had killed them. Simple. It was comforting to do as you were told. And with the right leader, the right person to follow, doing as you were told was complete freedom.

"Well," Astrid announced, lithely leaping down from the bunk bed, "you've repaid your debt, and you're free to leave."

Siari gave her a curt nod.

Her blue eyes frowning behind her mask, the woman said, "You don't talk much, do you?"

Siari shook her head.

"Well, so much the better, I suppose." She stood looking at Siari for a moment, then said, "Falkreath's visible from the top of the hill outside. If you want, travel southwest starting from Falkreath until you reach a black door. It will ask you a question: 'what is the music of life'. Tell it, 'silence, my brother', and it will open."

That might be a little difficult.

"Or come with me now?" Astrid said. "I can imagine why you'd kill the evil bitch that ran the orphanage in Riften, and if I'm right, then you've never had a family in your life. How would you like to be part of one?"


	9. Acrus: First Lessons

**.**

**ACRUS**

**First Lessons**

**Town of Winterhold**

Acrus' ass hurt like a monster from the uncomfortable carriage ride. One thing he hoped was that if this college accepted him, they'd at least teach him a way to travel with a bit more comfort.

In the old days, his tutor had told him, there had been spells that could make a man levitate or even teleport back to a place where he'd set a magical anchor, but those spells had been lost in time. His tutor had said it probably had to do with the ether not being powerful enough to support the great energies teleporting and levitating required. Acrus thought it was all wash. Those scrolls and tomes had simply been lost in time.

He made a mental note that maybe trying to develop another teleporting or levitating spell might be just the thing he needed to gain renown as a mage. Yes, reinventing those spells would be a goal worth striving for.

But first, he had to hone his skill, and this College of Winterhold seemed the place to do this. After all, if anyone in Skyrim could teach him, it would be the mages and wizards holed up in this College. If they even accepted him. Not that it was a matter of meeting the requirements or having the talent, but if the old biddy in the alchemy shop had been right, the place wasn't taking new members.

But he was determined not to let that stop him. If he showed them he had the talent, they would let him in.

Winterhold itself looked to be a rather insignificant hamlet, he noticed as he hopped off the carriage and paid the driver. Every bone in his body hurt, but he was here at last, so no time to whine. He wouldn't complain about his aching body, nor about the snowfall that chilled him to the bone and made it impossible to see farther than ten metres.

A young guardswoman walking her beat came towards the carriage, and Acrus hailed her in the suave and winning way he was known for. "Greetings, young lady of the guard."

The woman was far less interesting up close as she had been from a distance, her face, mediocre of its own accord, marred by a broad and ugly scar going down from her forehead, around her eye, and down to her lip. Maybe it was a better idea for this one to wear her helmet. "Good morning," she said, with a cheerfulness that was surprising given her rather unlovable appearance. "Here for the College, I assume?"

Even though Acrus found the young woman completely uninteresting, he remained friendly. After all, it wasn't her fault she looked this unfortunate. "Indeed. The staff gave it away, did it?"

The guardswoman smiled, wrenching the ugly scar on her face in an even more hideous pull. "That, and the scrolls sticking out of your bag. Ah, the College," she mused. "I would've stayed if I didn't have two kids to feed all on my own."

Two thoughts immediately jumped into Acrus' mind: _You've studied at the College?_ and _Someone made kids with you?_ He didn't voice either of them and simply said, "Yes, learning magic and supporting a family don't go well together, do they?"

She nodded, her eyes still cheerful. "Indeed they don't. Well, good luck. The College rejects a lot of applicants, but I'm sure you're not just some hopeful dabbler."

"Indeed, do not take me for some conjurer of cheap tricks." And to add, he quipped, "Usually when I say that, people get really impressed."

She smiled again, still faultlessly friendly. "I'm not so easily impressed. Well, welcome to Winterhold, and I hope you don't mind, but I have to give you our standard line of 'behave yourself and don't make trouble' now. Nothing personal, I'm sure you're very well behaved, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't let you know we're friendly unless you cause trouble."

Well, this cantrip-casting housewife had a job to do, Acrus supposed. "No problem at all. I'll be on my best behaviour." It was most certainly a problem, being treated like a proto-criminal, but if it made the scarface feel better, he was perfectly fine with acting like he didn't mind. "Now, where do I find the College?"

"Oh, of course. It's over there, see the end of the street? There's a bridge there. Can't really see it with all the snow falling but it's there."

"I see. Well, I don't see," he joked, "but I'll find it. Thanks."

She nodded and said, "No problem at all. Good luck."

"I'm sure I won't need luck," he boasted before turning and marching towards the end of the street the woman had pointed out. He hoped it was the last he'd see of _her_.

The wind drove the snow against his face and into his collar. Gah, at times he loved this land, but at other times he loathed it with every fibre in his body. Squinting against the snow lashing against his face, he could perceive what looked to be a bridge at the end of the street, a faint gray structure rising up.

Just a little further. A guardsman who saw him plod through the snow didn't hide his amusement, laughing a loud, unashamed laugh at what he doubtless perceived as a silly outlander making a fool of himself in the snow. It was something Acrus simply had to endure.

After some more plodding, the snow now finding its way into his shoes, he'd reached the bridge. The guardswoman had been right about that, at least. The snow lessened somewhat as he ascended the stairs, careful of not slipping on the wet and snow-slick stone. Taking a bad step here could mean taking a very painful (not to mention embarrassing) fall.

At the top of the stairs stood a woman who looked middle aged, but the pointed ears told Acrus that trying to pin an age on her would be pointless. She had an unpleasant insectoid face, like all those Altmer women had, and her hair was tied back in two braids, a sort of childlike hairstyle that clashed with her stern and older features.

But she wore a robe, and if she wore a robe, that means she was very likely to be from the College. Possibly even one of the mentors there.

"Another hopeful?" she greeted him. "Unless you're tragically lost?"

"I'm not lost," he panted, winded from the exhaustion of trudging through the snow and climbing the steps. He really had to work on his physical condition. "I'm here for the College."

"You and so many. Well, let's see if we can allow you entry."

"Fine. What do I do?"

"Easy," she said with a smirk. "Make it across the bridge without getting blown off."

The wind was suspiciously strong ahead, blowing and howling between the stones of the bridge, strong enough to blow just about anyone right off, and Acrus was pretty sure it wasn't a natural gale. Indeed, on the Altmer woman's face was, barely perceptibly, a look of intense concentration.

Still, easy. This was clearly a test to see if he knew one of the most basic spells in any hedge wizard's repertoire. Anyone who didn't would probably get blown right off the bridge, splashing in the ice cold river below for a harmless but shameful and freezing rejection.

Not Acrus though. Responding in kind to the Altmer woman's smirk, his mind plucked the necessary strands of energy out of the air and wove them into a Steadfast spell, the typical cantrip beginning mages used to keep from falling down rickety steps when stacking books, or being knocked over by a pig they were trying to catch for dinner.

As he felt his shoes take a firm grip on the stone below, Acrus effortlessly crossed the bridge, the wind having as much effect on him as it would have on a block of solid granite.

The wind promptly died down as he reached the other side, and the Altmer had been right behind him. "Well. Seems like the Inn will not have anyone's clothes to dry tonight. Welcome to the College of Winterhold."

He figured a display of humility was in order. "Thank you. I'm looking forward to learning more about magick."

"Well, let's not be premature. You're not accepted as a student yet. You've only earned the right to enter the College. But," she added, "the ease you cast Steadfast with, and the confidence you had crossing the bridge makes me rather convinced that you're very likely to be a promising candidate."

"Well, let's hope so." Of course he was a promising candidate.

"You can head on through. I suggest you speak to Master Wizard Ervine as soon as you can. She expressly wants all prospective candidates to see her first."

"Very well."

"At the risk of again being premature," the Elf said, showing a grimace that was supposed to look like a smile, "You'll be seeing me again during the lectures on Destruction. I am Faralda, the Senior Wizard teaching the Destruction course."

Oh, damn, this was one of the lecturers. Better make a good impression then. "Honoured to meet you, Senior Wizard. My name is Acrus Vadosus, and nothing would please me more than to take in every word of your lectures."

The Altmer immediately frowned. Agh, that hadn't been a good move. "I liked you better when you were cocky and presumptuous instead of a pandering sycophant."

Dang, it almost always worked, but you couldn't win them all. It was time for some false humility. "I apologize, I tried to show respect, but I'm better with magic than I am with words, it seems."

"Yes, well, my advice to you, don't pretend to be something you're not. You're dealing with mages, after all. What is concealed to most people is very transparent to us."

This wasn't the time to try and challenge the judgments of these people. "Of course," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. Now, I thought you were keen on entering the College?"

"I am." And to make sure she knew he'd listened to what she'd said, he added a casual, "See you."

That only got him a weary sigh. No pleasing some people.

He went on, ascending the second set of stairs, this one higher than the one before, and finding himself in front of a small tower that served as the entrance to the College, it would seem. As he passed beneath it, he noticed the sharp ends of a portcullis sticking out of the ceiling. Seemed the mages here didn't simply rely on spells to defend the place.

The structure ahead of him was built in the same style as the small tower, but it was far bigger. Nowhere near as big as the Arcane University in Cyrodiil, but still the size of a modest keep. He found himself in the courtyard, a large paved circle with an arcane font in the middle, where mages could draw energy to practice their spells. The font was dead in the centre of the courtyard, a narrow dark blue spike of light rising up from the ground. He knew better than to touch it, even though it looked inviting enough. You were supposed to draw from the energies with your mind, and directly coming into contact with a font could lead to serious burns, electrocution or even death depending on the nature of the source.

There weren't many people in the courtyard. One woman stood looking at the font, deep in thought, and two others, men, were at the edge of the courtyard, talking to each other. Acrus supposed he best ask someone where to find this Master Wizard called Ervine. Ervine seemed like a male name, so it probably wouldn't be the woman at the font. Good, then he could ask her without suffering the embarrassment of asking the person in question where he could be found.

He stepped up to the font, the energies brushing past his skin like tiny threads, and cleared his throat.

The woman at the font promptly turned. "Yes?" She was also middle-aged looking, with graying brown hair parted to one side. She wasn't exactly pretty and had a stern frown on her face, even more amplified by her slightly jutting chin.

Were there no good-looking ladies in this College?

Still he didn't know who he was dealing with, so best to stay polite and respectful. "Greetings. I was directed to find Master Wizard Ervine. Do you know where he is?"

The woman let out a chuckle, but didn't sound amused. "Another one. Why does everyone assume a Master Wizard is automatically male?"

What kind of halfwit question was that? "Well... the name, I suppose," Acrus said, trying to stay diplomatic. "Ervine is a male name, isn't it?"

"Yes," the woman said flatly. "Unless it's someone's last name." Her eyes narrowed. "Tell me, were you sent to find Master Wizard Ervine by Faralda?"

"I... yes, I was, as it happens," Acrus said, not sure if it was better to tell the truth or lie.

"Thought so," the woman said. "I told her a thousand times already to refer to me by both _name_ and _surname_." Wait, what? "But of course those confounded Altmer don't understand the concept of name and surname."

"I'm not sure...?"

"Yes, forgive me," she said, looking at least a bit friendlier. "You must be confused. I am Master Wizard Ervine. _Mirabelle_ Irvine."

Oh great. Seemed like the embarrassment of asking the wrong person wouldn't be spared him. Still, the Altmer had given him advice, advice he would take to heart. "Ah, well, not like I had any way of knowing, was there?"

"Indeed," she said sourly. "So, you are a new candidate, are you?" She sounded as if she found the very notion ridiculous, but Acrus imagined she did so to all the new candidates, to make sure they were motivated enough not to be fazed by her dismissive attitude.

"I am," he replied confidently. "Made it across the bridge without any difficulty. If there are more tests, I'd be happy to undergo them?"

"Yes, tests," the woman said, holding a pensive finger to her chin. "Tolfdir?"

The man she'd called out to, an old Nord dressed in frayed robes, turned away from the conversation he was having with the other man and asked, "Yes, Master Wizard?"

"This young man seems confident he'll be able to take our tests and not be found wanting." She sounded much less convinced than he felt.

"Ah, I see." The man said, in a pleasantly surprised tone. Then before Acrus realized what happened, he pulled his hands to his chest and threw them forward, a fiery ball of energy flashing towards Acrus. Instinctively, Arcus snatched threads of protective energy from the air and twisted them around each other, forming a ward. But as he made the threads spin and coalesce into the ward, the flaming ball struck him square in the chest, knocking the wind from him and lifting him off his feet. He came down hard on his back and skidded backwards a few more metres before coming to a stop.

When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by the amused face of the Master Wizard. Great. No better way to make an impression than from down on the ground.

"Now what in Akatosh' name are you doing down there, young one?" the woman asked, her tone nothing short of mocking.

"Well," Acrus tried to defend himself, clumsily scampering to his feet. The fireball had had mostly displacing force and not much heat. Still, the front of his tunic was warm to the touch and his chest felt like it had been struck by a giant's fist. "It was hardly fair. It's not like I was ready for that fireball or anything."

"Ahh," the old man said, amused. "So you can only defend yourself against the things you're warned of?"

"That's not what I mean," Acrus snapped, nervous that he'd failed the test and his application for the College would be, in a manner of speaking, torn to shreds before his eyes. "I can hardly be expected to be prepared for a sudden fireball when I'm in the College, can I?"

"And here, lesson one," the Master Wizard said imperiously. "You never have an excuse for not being prepared."

The old man weighed in, "Magic is powerful, but power won't save you if you're not in time to bring it to bear. You might think that as a mage, you'll never have to fear the common folk, but you must never underestimate how quickly an arrow is fired or an axe is swung. No amount of magic can save you if you're not always on your guard."

Acrus angrily slapped the snow off his breeches. "So I have to be careful of everyone while I'm here?"

"While you're here?" the old Nord echoed. "No. In here, the worst that can happen is that you take an embarrassing trip to the floor." Gravely, he said, "Out there. That is where you have to be careful."

"A mage's power," the woman took over, "is respected and looked up to, but it is also feared and envied."

"Well, it doesn't matter does it?" Acrus grunted. "I failed your test."

At this, both mages laughed.

"We can teach you to be prepared, child," the old man laughed. "We can teach you many things. What we can't teach you, however, is raw talent, which you already demonstrated you have, and the ability to think on your feet."

"Which I've shown I don't have?" Acrus said, upset at how the two made light of his failed test. How could they stand there laughing about something which meant so much for him?

"On the contrary," the Breton woman said gently. "Every single one of our candidates makes a trip to the ground the first time."

"But," the old man said, "All of them went down without even getting their ward spell off." He pointed at the place Acrus had stood when the fireball had struck him. "All of them except you."

Making a soft sibilant sound and gently flickering, and visibly flimsy due to the incomplete casting, the ward barely but surely kept itself in the air.


	10. Roë: Dawnguard

**.**

**ROË**

**Dawnguard**

**Near Dayspring Cave**

It had stopped snowing a few days ago, and thaw had come last morning. Now the mountain path they were following offered them a lovely vista of different greys and greens, the mosses enduring through winter and the nightshade and deathbell growing their first buds. They were hardy plants, and they could survive several weeks under the snow. Which was of course the reason they were found in abundance in this province and nowhere else. The juniper bushes had berries early, and they stopped for a mouthful whenever the chance presented itself. They were still bitter, but pleasantly so, and the juice trickling down one's throat after a long walk was a moment of bliss.

"Not far now," Durak said, leading the way. The Orc had turned out to be surprisingly intelligent and conversational, telling them about the Dawnguard and this and that, and of course about the Vampires. What they were like, where they holed up, and of course what their vulnerabilities were. The contraption he'd been carrying turned out to be a crossbow, shooting heavy bolts at a tremendous speed, good for penetrating the Vampires' hearts, which destroyed them instantly if the shot was true, unlike other injuries which often merely slowed them down, where a normal human would be instantly killed. The Vampire leader, who still came at her even when her face had been hacked in two, had been a good example. Beheading was also efficient, as was incineration. Fledgling Vampires were more vulnerable though, only a little more resilient than humans, which was why the other two Vampires _had _gone down from the first blow.

This and other bits of wisdom Durak had imparted as they went southeast, past Whiterun and then to the Hall of the Vigilants, Stendarr's followers who had been one of the Vampires' prime targets. They'd been mostly concentrating on battling Daedra, so they'd been ill-prepared for the attacks of the Vampires, creatures with other tactics and other weaknesses than the usually straightforward forces of Oblivion. Well, the lower ranks were straightforward at least.

Past the Hall of the Vigilants they'd gone, descending the mountain and now heading for a valley. Kunod had been mostly silent, as he always had been, asking the occasional question but keeping to himself and his own thoughts most of the time. The day before, as they'd made camp and got into their sleeping bags, Kunod had dragged his bedroll over to hers and before closing his eyes, put his arm around her without asking. She'd let him, thinking that the man was probably still trying to deal with Gethor's death and that some human warmth could maybe help him with that, but now she wished she hadn't. It might have put ideas in Kunod's head that would only hurt him in the long run. She'd come with him and Durak to avenge Gethor and stop the Vampires from killing more innocents, not to be closer to him – at least, not as more than a comrade and a friend.

"It's hard to spot," Durak said, squinting against the morning sun, "but there it is, down there."

Kunod peered at the place Durak had pointed out but could only say, "I don't see anything?"

"No, it's well hidden, you almost can't find it unless you're standing in front of it. It's got a ward too, that makes scrying spells and devices go wild, and compasses point in the wrong direction. Anyone trying to find that cave without my guidance would probably be in for a hair-pulling journey of frustration." He chuckled.

"Feeling a little better, Ro'?" Kunod asked.

"I'll be fine." She'd been running a bit of a fever, probably from being caught in a spell of rain the day before yesterday. It was nothing more than a cough and a runny nose, so no big deal, except for the burning throat and hot forehead. Durak had taken a look at her and said she didn't have to worry. It wasn't sanguinare vampiris, the disease responsible for causing vampirism, since that was transmitted by blood, and there were no bite or claw marks on her. Plus, the diseases typically came with nightmares and feelings of anxiety or dread. Roë didn't have nightmares and she wasn't the type to feel anxious and dreadful either. She could probably find herself a potion at Fort Dawnguard when they reached it anyway, so no point complaining.

"If there's anything you need, just ask, alright?" Kunod said.

"I'll be _fine_," she repeated with a smile. It was good of him to be thoughtful, but ultimately futile.

"Girl's just runnin' a little fever," Durak laughed. "I've been through much worse on a long slog, and I'm sure you two have been as well."

"Exactly," Roë said gently.

"Yeah, you're right, I suppose." Kunod sighed. "I'm still blaming myself for Gethor, which is why I might get a little overprotective at times, I guess."

Roë didn't think that was the reason, at least not mainly, but she smiled anyway and said, "It's alright. It's good that we're looking out for each other. And Gethor's death wasn't your fault."

"There's no point feeling guilty. What's done is done," Durak said, walking in front of them and craning his head towards them. "And you shouldn't let those things scare you into being overprotective. All you can do now is learn from it and look to the future."

"Speaking of futures," Roë said. "How long 'til we reach the Fort?"

Durak stopped and smiled at her, baring his tusked underbite. "Not long now." Extending his hand at the rock wall, he said, "After you."

"But… there's nothing there," Kunod stammered, not understanding.

Durak's smile broadened. "Stand over here."

Kunod did so and his eyes widened. "By the Underking, that's well-hidden!"

Maybe for a Nord, but Roë's keen Bosmer eyes had spotted the entrance the second Durak had pointed at it. She and Durak exchanged a brief, knowing smile, and then they entered the cave, first descending and then rising again, going under the mountain.

The walk through the cave took an hour or so, and they had to blink against the pale midday sun. As their eyes adjusted, they saw a roughly hewn staircase leading up, and against the wall of the mountain opposite the one they'd gone under, was a large fortress made of grey stone, almost as tall as the tower of Solitude, and looking like it could resist any attack. Roë, however, knew enough about covert warfare to be aware that one traitor within the walls was more dangerous than an army outside the gates.

"Let's head to the Fort straight away, let Isran take a look at you. Then we can get some ale and some rest."

"Sounds like a plan," Kunod said.

"Hmm," Durak muttered as they went up the stairs. "Haven't seen that guy before."

A young Nord stood at the top of the stairs, his back to them and his hands in his sides, looking up at the fortress.

"Hey there, boy!" Durak called. The Nord jumped almost two metres into the air and turned. "I- y… yes sir?"

"What's your business here?" Durak asked dourly.

"I'm uh…" He suddenly realized where he was and how he should act, and straightened up, saying, "I'm looking to join the Dawnguard, sir."

"I'm not a sir," Durak grunted. "This isn't the army. What's your name?"

"Agmaer, s…" He checked. "Agmaer."

"I'm Durak, these two behind me are also potential new recruits." Quietly, he added, "though not as wet behind the ears as you are." Then, louder, he continued, "Come with us, I'll take you three to Isran together."

"Oh, would you?" the Nord asked giddily. "Thanks, I wasn't really sure how to go about it."

"Really?" Durak said quietly, to his two companions, "I couldn't tell."

Agmaer, despite his rather childlike insecurity and enthusiasm, was a rather pleasant fellow. Perhaps a bit too pleasant for the Dawnguard. Roë didn't figure an order of Vampire hunters had much use for a naïve young farm boy whose only blood he'd seen had been that of the pigs his father slaughtered. Still, you could never tell what wood someone was cut out of until they were confronted with danger. Roë, and she knew Kunod too, had learned this from her time at the guard. They'd both seen small, stammering little guys take on thugs twice their size without blinking, and huge, powerful tough-talkers freeze up and even run when the shit hit the windmill. Still, the boy obviously had much to learn.

They passed under an arch that led to a side tower of the fort, and then past a courtyard that had target dummies set in it, where a man was practicing with his crossbow. Durak briefly hailed him, calling "Cerann!" and the crossbowman raised a hand in greeting in return.

"Now then," Durak said, "time to go see Isran. I'll be having an ale in the sun, it's best if you introduce yourselves rather than let me do it for you."

They stood in front of a large gate, the main entrance to Fort Dawnguard.

"Go on," Durak shooed them. "He won't bite your heads off."

Kunod nodded and pushed the double doors open, and they walked into the main hall, Roë and Kunod next to each other, Agmaer following a few paces behind.

The main hall was round, almost completely empty apart from a few crates and some benches, and looked to be in serious disrepair. The corners were cobwebbed and dirt ground beneath their boots as they walked. In the middle, lit by the few torches there were, stood two men. One, a large Redguard-looking man with a shaved head, a long beard, and powerful features, wore the same armour Durak did, though the front had several belts strapped over it, the other wore a robe over generic-looking but ornate steel armour. His head was also hairless, but in this case, it didn't look shaved but simply fallen out. He'd apparently tried to compensate for it with sideburns though, because his were impressive.

"They're all dead, Isran!" the man with the sideburns said, making it immediately clear which one Isran was. "Every single one of them. Even Carcette. Dead."

"And, Tolan?" the other asked aloofly. "You were capable of handling the Vampire threat, were you not? You laughed in my face when I came to you and told you the Dawnguard needed to be resurrected."

"Yes, Isran," the man in the robe admitted. "You were right, we were wrong. What more do you want me to say?"

Isran raised his hand to silence the other man. "Hold on. We'll discuss this later. Just who are you?"

Before Roë could answer, Kunod stepped forward and struck his heart with his fist. "Kunod of the Solitude guard, here to join the Dawnguard."

The man grinned through his beard. "Good, good. We can always use more men who actually realize the Vampires are more than just a nuisance." The stab at Tolan was unmistakable, and the man visibly shrunk under the barb. "And you?" he said to Roë.

Roë stepped forward, but didn't feel the need to imitate the dramatic gesture. "Roë, also Solitude guard."

"Really. We don't have any Bosmer in the Dawnguard yet. Well, now we do." He paused for a moment, then cocked his head. "Are you ill?"

"Just a little fever."

"Yes, your brow and cheeks are flaring red." His frown deepened. "Not sanguinare, is it?"

"No. Durak asked already, I wasn't bitten or clawed. I'll be fine."

"You both look like you can handle yourselves," the Redguard said, extending his calloused hand. "Welcome to the Dawnguard." When Kunod and Roë shook it, he noticed Agmaer hanging back in the shadows. "Step into the light, boy, let me take a look at you."

Timidly, Agmaer did so. Roë hoped the kid didn't regret his decision already. And if he did, that he'd at least have the courage to admit it.

"What's your name?"

"Agmaer, sir."

He got the exact same reaction he'd had from Durak. "I am not a sir and you're not in the army. Can you handle a weapon?"

"I uh… I've swung the odd axe."

Suspicious, Isran crossed his arms and looked at him closely. "Swung the odd axe? What, at the farm?"

Agmaer had inhaled to reply, but then his breath stopped. "Yes, sir," he said, looking embarrassed. "At the farm. My pa's axe."

Isran threw his head back and laughed. "At the farm!" Another laugh. "His pa's axe! Oh dear, Stendarr preserve us! Don't worry, boy, we can make a fighter out of you yet." He took the crossbow hanging at his hip. "Take this, go outside and tell Durak to teach you the basics."

Gingerly, Agmaer took the weapon.

"Stop cowering, boy!" Isran snapped, the boy flinching at his voice. Oh brother, this one needed to start from the ground up. "Go see Durak, tell him I know he's drinking ale and that he'd better spend his time on more useful things, such as training beginners like you."

"Y… yes, sir."

"I am not a sir! And this is not the army!" Isran barked at him. "Now go!"

Agmaer slunk away, visibly intimidated.

When he was gone, Isran gave Kunod and Roë a grin and said, "You need to be tough on 'em to make them tough." He chuckled. "'My pa's axe'. Priceless."

"What my captain always used to say too," Kunod said, grinning back. "And we turned out tough enough."

"You certainly look it. Son, I have an important job for you, if you're willing?"

Kunod quickly glanced at Roë and said, "Uh… certainly."

"There'll be a squad of men leaving tomorrow at dawn to eradicate a Vampire lair. Want to be part of it?"

Almost beaming, Kunod said, "Yes, yes I would. If you think I'm worthy."

Isran shrugged. "You come back alive, you're worthy. Head back out and speak to Cerann, he'll tell you what to do."

"Alright."

"Isran!" the man in robes interrupted impatiently. "What about the Vigilants?"

"What about them. They're dead."

"_I know_, Isran. But before they died, they were investigating a place the Vampires were poking around in. Dimhollow Crypt."

"And? They were probably looking for bats to talk to or something." Somehow, Roë didn't think it was something that simple. Usually, when your enemies were looking for something, it paid to find out what it was and get to it before they did.

"This is _serious_," Tolan insisted. "My gut tells me there's something important there."

Isran waved his words away. "Yes, yes. If it makes you feel better, I'll send someone on this wild goose chase." His eyes fell on Roë. "You. Are you fit to travel?"

"I said it was just a fever," Roë said back. If he wasn't a sir and they weren't in the army, then she had the liberty to tell him she didn't like repeating herself.

"I can't spare anyone to send on that little treasure hunt. Feel like checking it out?"

Roë had had the feeling it might be important, despite Isran's dismissive attitude, so she said, "Sure. I'll go. Where's Dimhollow Crypt?"

"Good woman," Isran said. She got some vague directions to a place called Volunruud, a dwemer ruin which should be visible from far away, and then she had to go North until she found a cave mouth.

Not exactly the most specific route description, but she figured she could find it herself. "Alright, I'll go see what's there."

"You would?" Tolan asked, relieved. "Wonderful! I'll meet you there. If there are vampires, I'll have a score to settle with them in the name of my fellow Vigilants."

"Uh… okay."

"Tolan might have made some mistakes in his life, but he's no pushover," Isran told her. "Stay close to him and learn from him what you can."

Tolan didn't react to the compliment and turned on his heels and walked away. "Take a day to rest, child, no rush in leaving. I have cremations to take care of."


	11. Falnas: Taking Care of Business

**.**

**FALNAS**

**Taking Care of Business**

**City of Riften, the Bee and Barb**

The first job he'd gotten was insignificant enough. Three deadbeats in Riften needed to be given a helpful reminder concerning their attitude on debts, specifically, those they owed the Thieves' Guild. They considered it better if they didn't pay, the Guild considered it better if they did. So someone needed to go slap some sense into them. No killing, of course, and not too much physical violence. Just a little friendly reminder. The Guild didn't really much care about the debt, Brynjolf had said, more important was the Message. You didn't just ignore the Thieves' Guild.

Falnas harboured no illusions. It was a prove-your-worth job if ever there was one. Still, if that's the type of job he needed to complete every once in a while, fine. There'd be more important, and lucrative jobs on the other end.

Haelga, Bersi Honey-Hand and Keerava. Those were their names. He knew who Keerava was, well, he'd ordered quite a few drinks at her bar. Talen-Jei, the Argonian he'd consumed those drinks with once in a while, was rather enamored with her.

Being a Thieves' Guild operative wasn't just stealing, Brynjolf had told him. Some problems can be solved without breaking into people's homes or stealing from them – though opportunism was always encouraged – and just talking to the right people the right way could be much more effective than robbing them blind. "Be creative," Brynjolf had said. "Just no killing, no major destruction of property. Common sense, really."

So he was here to lean on Talen-Jei a bit. He was in the Guild now, and you couldn't be soft just because you were old drinking buddies. Killing was not permitted, but that didn't mean threatening wasn't.

"So how's things with Keerava?" Falnas asked matter-of-factly, nursing his weak ale. He'd paid for Talen-Jei's Argonian brandy – strong alcohol to tip the scales a bit more.

"Oh she bides fine," the Argonian replied, somewhat uncertainly. "She's right there at the bar. Why are you asking me?"

"Still want to marry her?" Falnas didn't want to imagine how these creatures married or reproduced.

"Yes... I do. Why?"

"Oh," Falnas said, his tone as casual as possible. "Just heard she'd been having some problems... monetary ones, I mean."

Talen-Jei gave a nervous chuckle, his scaled nostrils twitching. "I... shouldn't discuss such things with others."

Time to make the conversation a bit more serious. "Oh, I heard she was in debt. Nothing tremendous, but still, unpaid debts... might bring some dangerous people to come and collect them."

"I'm... sure it's nothing she can't handle," Talen-Jei said nervously.

"Come on. I know you're crazy about her. Maybe I can help? Would be a shame to see her get hurt over a small debt."

"She doesn't accept any help," the lizard suddenly said, letting go of his suspicion. "I even told her to ask her family in Morrowind to help."

This could be interesting. It didn't matter where the money came from, as long as it was paid. "Why doesn't she?"

He made a throw-away gesture, then took his drink and finished it. "She's extremely protective of her family. When I made the suggestion, she instantly went all anxious, as if her family would be in danger just from _knowing_ about her debt."

_Hel_-lo? This was _very_ interesting. "I see," Falnas said, rising from his chair. "That's unfortunate. I hope things work out for her. I have to go."

"Alright," Talen-Jei said, oblivious to Falnas' plan. "Safe travels."

He always said 'safe travels', even if he knew the other person wasn't going anywhere. Falnas had no idea why, and he didn't care either. He'd be back for Keerava, but not right now. It'd be too conspicuous, and with Talen-Jei being loose-lipped as he was, he might be good for some more information further down the road, and he'd ruin that source if he made it too obvious where he got this useful tidbit from. He'd return later, in disguise.

It was still early, and he still had some time to spare before Keerava's shift was over and he could pounce on her on the way home. Next, Bersi Honey-Hand. Owner of the Pawned Prawn, a buy-and-sell store in town. The very name of the establishment made Falnas' stomach turn. No surprise that he was a Nord. Only they and the Orcs could think of a name like "Pawned Prawn" and actually consider it clever. As he crossed the bridge over the canal, enjoying the pale winter sun, he saw a familiar scene. The blonde man-bitch was giving Maven Black-Briar a piece of her mind again. This could be worth listening in on, so Falnas casually walked closer, pretending to be watching the lone white cloud in the sky.

"I assume you don't know what this is about either?" the blonde threatened.

"Honestly, Mjoll, your accusations were quaint at first, but they begin to tire me. Don't you have more interesting things to do than repeating the same piece of theatre over and over again?"

"Better things to do than trying to expose the person behind all the murders here in town? No, Maven. I have nothing better to do. Of course, you have no idea why someone would murder old Grelod in her sleep, do you?"

Falnas heard Maven laugh, even more confidently than usual. That laugh, and the arrogant notes in it, told him more than the Nord woman's dull senses could possibly hope to pick up. Maven Black-Briar had nothing to do with this particular murder.

"Really, Mjoll. Why would I _ever_ try to have the old biddy who runs the orphanage murdered? Unless you think I use it as a front for a moon sugar ring, or that I have illegal cockfights in the cellar?"

Falnas had heard of Grelod. Some old bint who ran the orphanage. She was dubbed Grelod 'The Kind' by the people in Riften, but the byname had been given with more than a small helping of sarcasm, since the old crone was a tyrant to the children. It wasn't unheard of for a child to break a bone or two after Grelod had thrown him or her off the stairs, and every child bore bruises under his or her clothes. There were even darker rumours, of Grelod 'renting' the children out to local creepers for purposes Falnas would rather not think about, but those rumours were just that.

"You know as well as I do that Grelod was nowhere near as kind as her epithet suggested." Falnas was surprised the battleaxe actually knew the word.

"Exactly," Maven said. Falnas could actually _hear_ her smirk. "Grelod must have made many enemies in her lifetime. Maybe she just forgot that abused children grow up and become vengeful adults?"

"And those other people? The brewers? Also murdered by vengeful adults?"

"Now, Mjoll, you know full well that I didn't claim they were. As for who _did_ murder them, well, it's still a mystery so far, yes?"

"Not to me, Maven." The Nord bullbitch took on a threatening tone, lowering the volume of her voice. "I _will_ get you, Maven. Sooner or later you'll slip up, and then I'll see you rot in the dungeon."

"Perhaps," Maven defied. "But not today. Now, unless there's something else, I suggest you leave me be."

"I will. For now."

Falnas heard the Nord stomp away with no subtlety whatsoever.

"And you. Your attempt to inconspicuously eavesdrop is pitiful."

Damnit! This was awkward. Still, he was caught now, so he better not upset this woman if he wanted to spend more than one day as a Thieves' Guild member. So he put on another little show. "Forgive me, lady. I rashly assumed you might want an ally close to you in case she got violent. And in case you needed someone to testify that she threatened you."

The woman chuckled. "Nice try, ashenface. It's insulting that you lie, but I must admit you came up with a very good one."

Better not disagree with her. "Curiosity is an essential quality for a thief, my lady. And I fear it sometimes makes us stick our noses where it doesn't belong. It will not happen again."

"You're right about that," the middle-aged woman said quietly, a hateful look at the Nord's back as she walked away. "It certainly will not happen again."

Falnas knew his presence was no longer required, so he just made a short bow and made himself scarce.

Right, the Pawned Prawn. With all the tension, Falnas had almost forgotten. He made his way to the pawn shop, unimpressed by its mediocrity when he arrived.

"Bersi!" Falnas exclaimed, greeting him as if he was an old friend he hadn't seen in years. "How are you, my man?"

"I'm sorry?" the balding Nord said, blinking. "I'm uh... not too bad, thank you. And uh, you?"

"Not too bad, huh?" Falnas asked, still keeping the winning smile on his face. "Then you surely have the one hundred gold pieces I've come here to collect?"

He blinked again, scratching his brown beard. What he didn't have on his head, he had on his chin. Nords and their damn beards. "I... have no idea what you're... what you're talking about."

"Really?" Falnas faked surprise. "Then... maybe I'm mistaken. You _are_ Bersi Honey-hand, are you not?"

"Yes, but – "

"And this _is_ your shop, the Prawned Pawn, is it not?"

"Pawned Pr – "

"And you _are_ selling items like this hand mirror here, are you not?"

"Well, yes but – "

Abruptly, Falnas let the mirror fall to the ground, watching as it hit the stone floor and flew apart into shards of glass.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

Falnas picked up a finely painted porcelain cup. "This." The cup, too, fell to the ground and broke into bits.

"You can't just come in here and – "

"Can't I, by the Nine?" Falnas asked, still taking care to sound amicable and friendly. "I'm just making sure that I have the right person in front of me."

"Yes I'm Bersi Honey-Hand, now stop breaking my stuff! You're paying for all that!"

"Now see, that's where we differ," Falnas said. "Every item I break here is interest. Interest on what you still owe the Guild."

"You're w... you're with the Guild?" the man breathed. "Look, this is a misunderstanding!"

That was exactly the thing he _shouldn't_ have said. "Misunderstanding?" Falnas exclaimed. "Oh my, we don't want that! We should provide some more clarity then!"

Before the man could shout "No!", Falnas had already put his finger against a vase, slowly pushing it until it toppled and shattered on the floor.

"Stop it!" Bersi shouted, his hands balled into fists. "You're destroying my shop! You've already caused more than a hundred septims worth of damage!"

"Like I said," Falnas said casually. "Interest, my dear. Still convinced it's a misunderstanding?"

"It doesn't matter, does it?" the man yelled. "You've already taken more than a hundred from me!"

"I haven't taken anything. As it is now, we're both still losing money. Pay up so at least one of us doesn't get a bum deal."

"After what you did? I don't think so." He was trying to be defiant, but he was only cutting into his own flesh.

"No problem," Falnas said casually. "I can do this all day long." He added deed to word and snapped the wooden dancer carving off a music box.

"I'll... I'll call the guard!"

"Go ahead. They can't unbreak your stuff. I'll be gone by the time they get here and I'll just be back another day. Or maybe another night? Who knows?" His eye fell on a gilded dwemer urn. "Oh this looks like a prize. Would be unfortunate if someone were to let it slip from his fingers."

"No! Stop!" Falnas paused, the urn in his hand. "... I'll pay."

Falnas flashed another friendly smile. "Music to my ears, Bersi. See? You _can_ be reasonable."

Glaring, the Nord filled a purse with septims and threw it at Falnas, who deftly caught it. "Thanks, Bersi. Pleasure doing business!"

"Just... put my urn down and go."

"Gladly," Falnas indulged him. But before he left, he stopped and turned around. "Oh, by the way? Someone should sweep this place, it's not very good for business to have a cluttered floor."

Falnas felt good about himself when he left. Enforcing a protection racket was trash tier work, but if he did it right, he'd be getting better jobs soon, so this was worth excelling in. One down, two to go, and he was halfway on the second. Still some time before Keerava's shift was done, but not enough to get started on his last 'client'.

A drink in the cool evening air would be nice. He purchased a bottle of sujamma at one of the stands in the market square, run by a fellow Dunmer, and sat himself down by the canal. Skyrim was cold and untameable, but it could be beautiful at times like these. Birds were chirping in the evening twilight, and in the distance, Falnas could hear the metallic tings of Balimund the smith's hammer as it hit the metal he tirelessly forged. The architecture was simple and robust, nothing like the elaborate structures or inhabited mushrooms and insect shells you found in Morrowind, but still possessing a sort of simple beauty, hidden beneath their rough stonework and simple square design.

"Hey Falnas," a familiar voice greeted him while he drank with his eyes closed, enjoying the taste of his homeland.

"Ah, Romlyn," Falnas said back. "How does the day find you?"

"Oh, good." He held out his hand. Of course, the man worked for the Black-briar brewery. His body needed alcohol like Falnas' needed air. It was obvious he liked the drink when you looked at him. His hair was stark white, and the bony ridges of his brow and cheeks clearly visible, the dark skin stretched tightly over them. Falnas wondered if he ever ate, or only drank. Then again, it wasn't his business, and he passed Romlyn the bottle.

"So, what news?" Falnas asked as Romlyn Dreth sat down on the bench next to him.

"Oh, not much. All's quiet in Skyrim, just the way I like it."

"Mm. I like it when there's a few things going on," Falnas said. "Can't really ply my trade when things are _too_ calm."

Romlyn chuckled and drank from the sujamma. "Well, we all have our ideal circumstances for doing what we do."

It wasn't a secret between them. Falnas picked pockets and made valuable objects disappear, and Romlyn kicked back a generous sum of septims per month by diverting a daily stream of septims into his pockets at Black-briar brewery. After getting to know this Maven Black-briar prune a little better, Falnas doubted if what Romlyn was doing wouldn't end in him floating down the canal one day. But he supposed Romlyn knew the risks. "Yes, I suppose the calm is perfect for you and your... hard work at the brewery."

Romlyn merely grinned broadly, looking out at the square and drinking from the sujamma again.

"That's enough, Romlyn. Come on, I paid for it, I should at least get to drink more than one sip."

Reluctantly, the brewer gave the sujamma back. "Fine, fine." His features suddenly lit up. "Oh, by the way, you wanted some more upheaval?"

"Of the good kind, yes."

"This may interest you. You know Mjoll the Lioness, right?"

"The butch vigilante type? Yes, I know her. Well, _of _her."

"One of her friends is in Riften for a few days. You may know _of_ that one too."

"Romlyn, I'm burning with curiosity," Falnas said in a bored voice. "Enlighten me?"

He clearly enjoyed keeping him in 'suspense'. "Remember that blonde we thought was her sister, a few months ago?"

Oh yes, Falnas remembered her all too well. How could he not? The damn woman had come to town, gone with Mjoll on some sort of 'heroic quest' to retrieve an old sword, and when she'd come back, she'd hauled a sack of dragon bones behind her and told Balimund to forge them into a suit of armour if he pleased, like it was the most normal thing in the world. There were rumours going about that one, that she was the so-called Dovahkiin, who possessed the power of the dragons. The Dragonborn of silly Nord myth.

Although Falnas had doubted his own idea of Nord myths being silly when he'd seen how the woman had reacted when a drunk challenged her to a fight in the Bee and Barb: she'd simply taken a deep breath, and without putting her ale down, shouted some power words or something in a terrifying roar of a voice, and the man had been lifted off his feet, flying all the way through the tavern to slam against the wall several metres further. His fire to prove the supposed Dragonborn a fraud was quickly extinguished, and no one had drawn her into questioning for the rest of the evening.

"Yeah, what was her name again? Something beginning with 'arse'. We laughed about it when we heard. Damnit, what was it again?"

"Arska," Romlyn helped him out.

"Right. Well, she's a celebrity these days. And she's coming to Riften?"

Romlyn nodded. "Mm. Got business with the Jarl. She's staying at our pesky vigilante's house."

"You'd think you'd be more appreciative," Falnas pointed out, "since the keeps Maven too occupied to check the brewery's finances."

"Just because she comes in handy doesn't mean I have to like her," Romlyn pointed out. "I still think she's a hardhead, and her posturing gets on my nerves."

"Yes, well. Be that as it may, that supposed Dragonborn visiting might be a blessing or a curse. If she riles things up a little, that's good for my business. Of course, if she overdoes it, then that's no good for anyone."

"You're probably hoping she'll kill a dragon right outside the gates, aren't you?"

Falnas grinned. "Oh, if only. Imagine the tourists and pilgrims. Imagine the gold in their pockets."

"If that happens," Romlyn said, "I'm quitting the brewery and becoming competition for you."

Falnas briefly thought of telling him he was with the Guild now, but Romlyn had no business with that. Better to keep it a secret for now. "So hey, Romlyn. You wouldn't happen to know Haelga, would you?"

Romlyn nodded, holding out his hand for the sujamma again. "Runs the bunkhouse."

"Yes, Romlyn, that I know. I spent many a penniless night on those straw mattresses."

"She always orders a bottle of Black-briar Reserve Premium, every week. To offer at the statue of one of the Nine, can't remember which one. I was late once, and she almost had a heart attack because she wouldn't be able to make her offering in time. Bit of an iconoclast, that one."

"Really? That's good to know." A plan formed in Falnas' mind. It was almost too easy. He rose. "Finish the rest of the bottle, it's yours. I've got a few things to do."

"Not in my house while I'm not there, I hope?"

"Don't be silly," Falnas said. "You know I only steal from these gullible Nords."

Keerava's shift was almost over. Falnas waited in the shadows, wearing the disguise he'd quickly put together, a quick and hasty combination of a black cloak and a gray cowl, with a kerchief over his face. It wasn't the most stylish of disguises, but it'd have to do. After all, Falnas still felt like having a drink in the Bee and Barb every now and then, and people tend not to serve their extortionists.

The door of the Bee and Barb clicked closed. Keerava was on her way home. Now was the time.

Falnas popped out from behind the corner and went to stand right in front of Keerava.

"If you're trying to mug me, scum, then I hope you're ready to look for your balls in the canal!" Feisty, but ultimately futile.

"You're late on your protection money, Keerava," Falnas said, making his voice unrecognizable, and faking a Mournhold accent to put her on the wrong foot.

"Oh so you're with the Guild, huh? Well, the offer's the same. Beat it or your balls will be floating – "

"Yes, yes." He'd heard it the first time. "Pay up right now or we're paying a visit to your family in Morrowind. Maybe they'll pay in your place. Or maybe we'll have to take it out of their skin." It was callous and ruthless, but it was only meant to scare the lizard.

And scare her it did. "No, please! I'll pay, I'll pay, just... leave my family alone." Her reptilian eyes were wide with terror. Falnas almost felt guilty.

"Tomorrow," Falnas threatened. "Leave the gold at the graveyard, in the flower pot against the wall."

"Yes, yes, alright, I promise, just... don't hurt my family."

"Pay and we won't have to." With that, he backed away, rounded the corner and ran. Job well done. He ran through the alleys of Riften until he was absolutely certain he wasn't followed, then slowed to a walk, taking off the disguise and casually dropping it over the railing and into the canal. Poor canal was used as a dumping ground for everything these days.

Two in the morning. The perfect time for his last visit. He shouldn't have dumped his disguise, damnit. How stupid was that? Still, he intended not to be seen, so the disguise wouldn't be necessary if he did his job well. The bunkhouse didn't hold much in the way of valuables, so it wouldn't be too difficult to break in. And unless the place was particularly full on a given day (which it wasn't tonight), the beggars and losers would all be sleeping upstairs. Sleeping on the floor was agony with the cold in Riften.

The bunkhouse was a two-storey wooden building, built without much pretention, just logs stacked on top of each other until they looked like a house. There were two entrances, not including the windows, and Falnas would, of course, be taking the back.

He sneaked around to the back of the house and pulled his dagger, snapping the lock open with a simple lever movement. Carefully, he pushed the door open, wincing when he heard the creaking sound of the joints. The bunkhouse interior was dark, but Falnas' keen eyes told him nobody was here. Or wait, there was one. In the corner, an old man lay on a cot, gently snoring. The bunkhouse had apparently been fuller than he'd thought. No matter, the man probably wouldn't wake up if he was quiet enough. He tiptoed inside, wishing he'd studied magick, since there was apparently a spell that could let one see in the dark. Ah well, he'd have to do without.

As his eyes adapted to the low light, he found he could see a bit more. And what little light there was reflected off a statue on a shelf, of a nude woman in a rapturous pose. At its foot were flowers, nuts and a stick of incense. That was what he was looking for. Quietly, he crept to the statue, picked it up and left his note in its place. '100 septims for the Guild, under the rock without moss under the lantern at the front gate. Pay or Dibella takes a dive into the latrine pit'.

He wrapped the statue in cloth and made to leave, when he heard a scratching sound coming from the front door. Damn, someone was trying to get in. He didn't have time to bolt to the back door, so he simply ducked behind a pile of stacked straw mattresses in the corner.

The figure that made the door creak open was not Haelga. Haelga was blonde, like this one, true, but she was also potbellied and bowlegged. This one had the body and bearing of a warrior in the prime of her life, and her hair was shoulder-length, unlike Haelga's messy ass-length braid.

The woman snuck past the pile of mattresses, to the sleeping figure on the cot. And as she passed by a slit of moonlight coming in through the wall, Falnas recognized her instantly. It was the woman that was apparently good friends with Mjoll the Lioness. The one that had shouted at a bar patron and flung him away like a rag doll. The supposed Dovahkiin.

But what was she doing here, sneaking around in this grungy bunkhouse? Maybe she was short on septims to pay for her tacky dragonbone armour. Wouldn't that be hilarious. No, it had to be something else. Maybe something personal between her and the old man? Nah, couldn't be it either.

The woman, dressed in black leather with muffled joints – Falnas could recognize high-quality stealth armour in the dark – bent over the man and, with her back to Falnas, brought her head down. It looked like she was whispering something in his ear.

There was a strange, almost inaudible, sound of lips smacking, and the woman rose again.

With her wrist, she wiped the leftover blood off her chin.

By Sotha Sil's withered balls!

Falnas held his breath, watching the woman standing with her eyes closed, apparently savouring the moment, the sliver of moonlight falling on her pale face. So the mighty dragon-slaying heroine of Skyrim was a bloodsucker. Falnas had heard about Vampires, but this was the first time he'd actually seen one.

The Nord's eyes flew open, and in a quick, silent movement, her sword was out, pointed straight at Falnas. "Step out from there," she hissed, loudly enough to wake the man on the cot. Oddly, he just kept snoring.

Falnas kept still, looking at the woman through the cracks in the cot pile. Maybe she hadn't seen him. Or maybe if he stayed still, she'd think it had just been a trick of the eye.

"If you don't come out, I'm stabbing you right through these cots."

Falnas didn't doubt for a moment that she would. It seemed surrender was the better part of valour. Sighing in disappointment at his own ineptitude, he stood up with his hands held up. "I'm not armed," he whispered.

"Wouldn't make a difference if you were," the woman said back. No, it probably wouldn't. "Walk." She nudged the tip of her sword at the back door. "Outside, move."

Falnas complied, even though he knew she was just leading him outside so she could stab him through the throat unhindered. Fuck, fuck, he'd have to act like he did what she asked, and then hope for an opportunity to distract her or slip away. Falnas went out the door, staying as quiet as he could, and the woman followed him.

Cold rain had started falling, and Falnas complained, "Wonderful. I get to die in wet clothes."

"What have you seen?"

Falnas sighed again and let his shoulders slump. "That you bit the old man and sucked his blood. Please, let's not insult each other by playing mind games."

"Turn around." When Falnas didn't respond immediately, the woman repeated, "_Turn around_."

This time he did as he was told, and found himself face to face with the dragonslayer. She wasn't that bad-looking, up close. For a Nord at least. Hard features, and icy blue eyes whose pupils reflected the light in pale red. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced, and she had a strong jaw, which was made even more noticeable by her sunken cheeks. Her face was a bit manly, as most Nord faces were, but she wasn't ugly. By Nord standards. Falnas realized it'd probably be the last face he saw.

"You know who I am, right?"

Falnas nodded. "Yes. Arska Gvalhir. You're not exactly... a nobody."

"You are going to keep absolutely, totally, completely fucking _quiet_ about what you just saw. Is that clear?"

Whoa, what? She was going to let him go? This was a game, right? A trick to make him feel hopeful just so she could enjoy stabbing him more. Still, he had to take the chance. "Yes. Clear as crystal. Look, it's not my business what you do at night. And it doesn't look like you're killing anyone, so..."

"Damn right I'm not killing anyone." She chuckled without humour, looking back at the bunkhouse. "Not with what I do here, at least." She let her wary gaze rest on him for a while longer, then lowered her sword. It was a black-bladed thing, slightly curved, with wicked serrations on the back. Not something he felt like getting lodged between his ribs. "I'll let you live," she said. "But you better keep your tongue tied about this."

"I swear," Falnas said solemnly.

'Not sure I can trust a thief on his word," the woman said, nudging her chin at the fabric-wrapped statue Falnas carried. "What's that all about?"

"Oh, that's... uh," saying it was a squabble over protection money would be a bad idea, "a statue I'm stealing back for a client. The owner stole it and my client's been mad with grief and worry that the Nine will turn away from her if I don't retrieve it. So, hence." He hoped the lie was convincing enough.

"Hmm. Well, like I said, keep your tongue tied. Trust me, you'll be dead before anyone believes you."

"I don't doubt it," Falnas said, completely sincere. "I have no desire whatsoever to risk my neck just so I can share some gossip. The Guild's all about discretion, after all."

"Mm. Well, I have to go. Keep your nose clean," she said with a little smirk. So she could show amusement after all. "Have fun repossessing statues."

"Have fun uh... dragonborning," he replied, then watched her walk off into the rainy night.

What a strange encounter that was. Still, he'd spoken to the Dragonborn, and she didn't turn out to be a bad sort.. If he kept this little thing silent, then maybe someday, he could ask her for a little favour or two.

It had been a close one. If that sword-slinging amazon hadn't believed him, his head would be rolling on the flagstones by now. It was a good night to be alive, especially since he could now report back to Brynjolf. He had one pouch of a hundred septims in hand, and two more payments were forthcoming – and Falnas didn't doubt for a second that they would come. It was time to go tell Brynjolf he'd proven his worth, and see what the Guild was really all about.


	12. Keljarn: Proving Honour

**.**

**Keljarn**

**Proving Honour**

**Jorrvaskr**

Oh, by the Nine, the _hangover_.

He remembered where he was – Jorrvaskr – and what he was doing here. He'd joined the Companions after getting an offer that was so good he'd be insulting them by even considering it before accepting, and then there'd been mead. Lots of mead. Too much mead. He vaguely recalled Farkas inspecting his axe, and saying it was clearly an Avenicci, Vilkas and Aela asking him things about him, his past, his home, family, and so on.

As he struggled a bit harder to remember, which made his head pound more painfully, he recalled waxing poetic at one point, proclaiming how wonderful it was to be a Nord and to be a free Nord, to find strength on the mountaintops and in the ice cold wind, and all that kind of drunken-passionate tripe he spewed when he was drunk and wanted to emphasize that he was a Nord and not a Breton.

The rest of the night was a complete blank. But judging from the way his head felt, he'd been drinking until he'd fallen over. How he'd made it to his bed, he had no idea, but he didn't think it would have been in a straight line or without falling over.

Where _was_ his bed anyway? It wasn't the inn room, so he assumed he was still in Jorrvaskr, probably in the rooms under the hall. His head pounded in pain, the thumping intensifying with every little movement he made, and his mouth was cork dry. His stomach made slow, lazy tumbles.

He opened his eyes and saw light coming from the opening in the door. Biting the pain in his head, he sat up and put one foot on the ground.

He felt something wet and soft squish under his foot, and promptly, the sour smell of vomit stabbed his nostrils. Ah, crap.

Just to make sure, he felt the other side of the bed to make sure there was no woman in there. Because he wouldn't be the first to wake up next to someone he didn't even remember. There was a reason why jokes about drunk men waking up butt naked in the woods always featured a Nord.

His bed was empty apart from him though, thankfully. He wouldn't have minded waking up after a night of unremembered romance per se, but only if it didn't involve throwing up next to the bed.

He wiped the sole of his foot on his tunic (that was ripe for the pyre anyway) and rose to his feet, his head pounding so hard he had to close his eyes and just hold his hands to his temple for a few minutes. He'd given up on making the morning-after vow to never drink again, but if there was ever an argument against irresponsible drinking, this was it. What misery.

He staggered outside, squinting against the light. Ria, the Breton-or-Imperial girl who'd been so dedicated the day before, whirled around when she heard his door creak further open. "Oh. Good morning. Umm... is there anything I can do for you?"

"Of course not," he joked in a croaking voice. "Don't I look the picture of health?"

She permitted herself a short chuckle, then said, "Things can get a bit rowdy here at the hall. I'm sure you'll get used to it."

"Not sure I'll ever get used to _this_." This was probably the worst hangover he'd ever had. But then again, didn't all hangovers feel that way?

"I hope I wasn't too annoying last night?" she asked.

"Uh... If you were, it wouldn't have mattered. I don't even remember talking to you."

Her face held a mixture of relief and regret. "Oh. Well, it wasn't important anyway."

"What'd we talk about?"

"Oh just... things. I can be a bit long-winded when I'm talking about why I want to become a good warrior, I think."

He managed a chuckle despite his pain. "Well, if you don't mind telling the story again, I'd like to hear it. When I'm less comatose."

She smiled and nodded. "Alright. I'm sure we'll still be seeing a lot of each other. And um... it may be a bit out of line, but... well, welcome to the Companions."

"Thanks but... why would it be out of line?"

"Well... I'm just an initiate, and you're already an apprentice. Seems weird welcoming someone who's higher up than me."

"Oh, like that. Well, I consider myself the new guy, so no need to worry."

She smiled again. "Okay." She wasn't good-looking, but she had a fire in her eyes, he'd noticed it the day before too, and she was friendly to a fault. He was briefly tempted to tell her the Inner Circle were very close to making her apprentice, but he decided against it. It wasn't his place, much as he liked to give her the good news. "I think you should go see Aela now, she said she had a few more things to tell you."

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

"Might be a good idea to put some clothes on first though."

Oh crap. Looking down at himself, he realized he only wore his loincloth. Of course, he'd used his tunic to wipe his feet. Yeah, the Companions probably weren't all that hung-up on dress codes, but a small degree of decency was probably not a bad idea.

"There should be clothes in your room?" Ria helpfully pointed out when she saw his probably extremely stupid expression.

"Oh. That's good, because the clothes I wore last night..."

She made a sour face. "No. Might be a bad idea to wear those ever again."

There were indeed clothes in the room, some basic cloth and fur garments, but they were good enough. Better than just his loincloth at any rate. Putting them on was quite the ordeal with his pounding hangover, but if he was going to be a Companion, might as well bite the pain. As he tied the laces of the soft leather boots provided for him, he heard a voice from the doorway.

"So. This is our new addition."

He looked up to see a tall and powerfully-built Nord leaning on the door jamb, his arms crossed. He was massive, almost as big as the two brothers, but his head was shaven, and over his left eye ran a wince-worthy scar, the eye replaced by a matte glass orb. Wicked tattoos ran over the sides of his head, and he had two horizontal double-stripes of red war paint on each cheek. "Doesn't look like much from where I'm standing."

"Well I uh, I don't think anyone looks like much when they're battling the worst hangover of their lives." Keljarn didn't know the man, and in situations like these, you never knew who you had in front of you, so always best to stay cautious and not give yourself too much of an air.

The man laughed, which was always a good sign. "Don't worry, milk drinker. We'll make a man out of you eventually."

"Just not today, if it's all the same to you."

Yeah, that had been a dumb thing to say. The man's grin widened and he said, "_Especially_ today. Come on, we've got work to do."

Ah crap, these guys didn't sit around. Keljarn followed the man with the shaved head up a flight of stairs and into the hall of Jorrvaskr. So the rooms were on the cellar level. Not an unreasonable choice if it meant more room for the mead hall, Keljarn supposed. There weren't many people in the hall right now. The only ones he saw were the snippy shield-polisher and Farkas. He must have a head of steel, because he'd drank even more than Keljarn had, and he looked perfectly chipper. When he noticed Keljarn, he bellowed in laughter. "Rise and shine, pup. You look like shit."

"Yeah," Keljarn croaked. "I wager I do."

Farkas held out the bread basket to him. "Breakfast?"

"Ewgh, no thanks. I can't get anything through my gullet right now."

Farkas shrugged and took the bread basket back. "Your loss. So, Skjor, big day today?" That confirmed what Keljarn already thought. This was the oft-spoken-of Skjor.

"I'd say so," the shaven man said. "Time to set out for Wuuthrad. You better come back with that fragment."

"Wait, 'you'?" Keljarn echoed. "You're not coming with?"

The man shook his head.

"And they call _me_ a milk drinker."

"I don't waste time with Initiates," the older man said. "Especially if they've been appointed without my saying so. You prove your worth, and _then_ you can come with me on the real jobs. Until then, you go with Farkas and do whatever he tells you." The unlikeable little wench in the corner grinned when she heard it.

Well, at least he'd be traipsing around with the far more amiable Farkas than with grumpy old Skjor. Still, it wasn't a good sign that he wasn't invited on the big jobs yet. Then again, what had he expected? The instant promotion to Initiate was pretty great already, and it figured that he'd have to prove his worth a bit before being privy to the group's 'real' work. "Fine," he merely said. "I'll just ignore my hangover."

"Ignore it or complain about it, I don't care," Skjor grunted, walking off. "But you better come back with that fragment."

When Skjor had gone out, Keljarn asked Farkas, "What fragment is he talking about?"

"Sit down," Farkas said. "Have some milk, you need it. He's talking about a fragment of Wuuthrad."

"Wuuthrad?" Keljarn asked.

Farkas snorted with a grin, "Damn, son. You're so proud to be a Nord, then you have to know your history. Wuuthrad, also known as the Merslayer, is the battle axe Ysgramor wielded, long ago. You know who Ysgramor was, right?"

"Yeah," Keljarn said. All the memories from the night before weren't driven from him fully. "The founder of the Companions."

Farkas nodded. "Exactly. Guess you can understand why we would want to find the fragments and reassemble it, right?"

"Obviously."

"Well," Farkas explained, "We've located one in a place called Dustman's Cairn, not that far from here. You and me, we're going to get it. Nevermind what Skjor said, we're both going in as allies, you're not like, my squire or anything."

"That's nice of you, Farkas," Keljarn said, meaning it.

"Meh. Anyway, let's head out. You can sweat out your hangover on the road."

"Yeah," Keljarn said, holding his head. "Wish I'd stayed in bed."

"Skjor would have just dragged you out. Let's go."

Dustman's Cairn wasn't that far, only a few hours' walk, and as they went, Keljarn's headache gradually diminished, until it was only a faint throb when they got to their destination. Farkas talked Keljarn's ear off about the Companions, about Skyrim, and everything else. Their walk took them northwest of Whiterun, through rolling plains wedged in between two mountain ranges. The weather was fine in the beginning, a cold wind but the sun shining happily, keeping them both warm. As they progressed, however, it became more and more gray, until, in the late afternoon, there wasn't a single bit of blue sky visible anymore. The first flakes of melting snow began to fall when Farkas stopped and pointed at a cave mouth. "This should be it," he simply said, shrugging off his backpack and taking out the necessary items for cave-crawling. Keljarn did the same, unpacking the oil lantern and filling it, hooking a few pitons on his belt and slinging the rope around his shoulder. Farkas hung a decent-sized pick on a loop on his belt, and hung a small pouch of medical supplies on the other. They were ready to go.

Keljarn lit the oil lantern and nodded. "Ready."

Farkas nodded back. "Let's do this."

In they went, Keljarn having to light the oil lantern almost right away because the cave was pitch dark. "Careful," Farkas warned. "Ground's uneven. Wouldn't want to take a nasty spill before we have a chance to get the fragment."

"No, let's save that for after."

The cave itself was rather narrow, but the footing was mostly manageable, Keljarn only occasionally stumbling and having to lean against the wall for balance.

"Right," Keljarn heard Falnas say. "This isn't a natural cave. Bound to be traps, be careful."

He emerged into a large room, illuminated by phosphorescent fungus, not very well lit, but enough to be able to extinguish the lantern for a bit and save oil. "So what is this then?"

"Pretty sure the fragment was placed in some kind of place of worship," Farkas said, looking around the room. It was hewn out of the stone by human hands, with a high ceiling covered with fungus that gave off a pale blue light. It was icy cold inside the cave, and from everywhere came the dripping of moisture. Farkas' breath left white puffs of miasma.

"That fungus," Keljarn said, "It's not the kind that can take over your mind and make you blind so you have to rely on sound, and you spend your days making clicking noises, is it?"

Farkas shook his head. "You've been reading too many books, friend. I suggest a harmless little pun joke book to get those crazy ideas out of your head."

"Yeah, yeah. There's a lever here," Keljarn said, spotting the rod that stuck out of the ground in an alcove. "Think it opens something?"

"Maybe," Farkas said. "But I think there's an opening right there. Still, it's there for a reason, so pull it."

"You sure?" Keljarn asked. He figured it was always best to look around as much as possible before pulling any levers. It could be a trap, Farkas himself had just said there might be.

But the big man shrugged and said, "Pull it, it's the only way to be sure."

"Alright then," Keljarn said, "but if I'm crushed by a stone, I'm going to reincarnate into a bird and poop on your head."

With a chuckle, Farkas said, "Faint heart never won fragment."

"Yeah, yeah." Nervously, Keljarn pulled the lever.

rrrrRRRRCLANG!

Nine damnit, he knew it'd be a trap! Surprised that he wasn't dead, Keljarn realized that the lever had made a heavy portcullis slam down, trapping him in the alcove. He tried to lift the thing back up, but it wouldn't budge, locked in place by some kind of mechanism.

Farkas' heavy, hoarse laughter came toward him. "Gate trap. Good thing I'm here or you'd have rotted in there."

"Glad you think it's funny," Keljarn grunted. "Now how 'bout getting me out of here?"

"Sure, let me just look for – "

"They fell for it! Get 'em! For the Silver Hand!" came a battlecry from the other side of the cave. Farkas whipped his head around and he and Keljarn saw four or five figures charge in from the cave entrance, hard to see in the faint light of the fungi, but definitely there. Dammit they'd been followed!

"It'll have to wait," Farkas rapped, before launching himself at the attackers.

_Five against one_, Keljarn thought, _he doesn't stand a chance_. _He's gonna die and then they'll either kill me or leave me to rot!_

With a roar, Farkas fell upon the men who ambushed them. In the faint light, Keljarn couldn't see more than dark shapes, but something happened to Farkas. He _changed_. In a brutal, horrible phantasmagoria of death, Keljarn saw the flashes of human figures being struck down, blood spattering against the walls as their arteries were torn open and their bones broken, their bodies launched against the walls like bleeding, broken rag dolls. Keljarn heard inhuman growling, screams of pain, and the clatter of weapons falling to the ground, and then it was over. Only one person still stood, and as Keljarn looked on, a terrifying demonic shape slowly returned to human.

Footsteps sounded, the sound bouncing off the moist cave walls, as Farkas came back towards him, now bare-chested, his trousers split at the calves and thighs, vertical tears exposing the hairy skin beneath.

"F... Farkas," Keljarn stammered. "What in Oblivion just happened?"

Farkas only chuckled mysteriously. "Five people attacked me, and they died."

"Yes but... but you..."

"But I what?" he asked. Keljarn could see in the faint light that his face was amused. "Don't worry, it'll all become clear, later. When you're a bit more experienced."

"Farkas," Keljarn asked with insistence. "What did you do?"

Farkas gave him an impatient look. "I said it'd become clear later. Now, let's get you out of there." He scanned the wall next to the niche and said, "Aha."

"What, 'aha'?"

With a grin, Farkas raised his hand and pulled the chain hanging from the wall, and the gate mechanism released with a click. They both grabbed the portcullis and pulled it up, making it click back into place again in its open position.

"They had to get the victims out after they were dead, I suppose," Keljarn reasoned. "Not an efficient trap if it's full of dead bodies."

With a nod, Farkas said, "Mm, that's probably the reason, yes. I wouldn't look at the corpses, if I were you."

Keljarn did it regardless, and immediately regretted that he had. The bodies were torn apart, one assassin (or whatever they were) had been disembowelled, his viscera torn from his belly to lie on the stone floor in a black clump. A female had her face literally torn off, and all Keljarn had been able to discern in the bloody mess was the white of two remaining teeth. Whatever Farkas had done, or what he had become, it was something with superhuman, even monstrous strength.

"Farkas, you..." Keljarn breathed, but Farkas merely said, "Later."

They crossed the room and found themselves in a smaller area, where a pedestal sat in the middle. On the pedestal lay a glinting shard of steel.

"There we go," Farkas pointed out. "Only magical steel stays in that condition for so many years."

"Is this the point where you cut yourself and say 'still sharp'?"

Farkas chuckled. "Daedra, no. Just because it's still shiny doesn't mean you can't pick up a nasty infection from it."

Taking a piece of cloth from his pack, Farkas made to wrap the shard in it, but Keljarn stopped him. "There's a reason it's still there. You can tell me this thing has been here for years and years and no one's stolen it yet. Bound to be warded or trapped."

"Mm. It's possible, yes." Farkas paused for a moment, then said, "but we'll never know unless we remove it."

Before Keljarn could stop him the second time, Farkas scooped up the shard of metal and wrapped it in the fabric.

Silence fell, both of them looking around the eerie fungus-lit cavern. Nothing happened.

With a chortling laugh, Farkas said, "Well, looks like you were worried for noth – "

A loud _BAM_! rent the silence, and then another one. Farkas and Keljarn exchanged a startled glance. "What the..."

Then they saw what had caused the noise: the lids of two upright sarcophagi had flown off, banging against the opposite wall and cracking into pieces.

"Good thing those didn't hit us," Farkas remarked.

"Don't be silly," Keljarn said, gripping his axe tightly. "That's not what they were for, we weren't even close. No, I'm thinking – "

Keljarn was proven right when they saw what emerged from the sarcophagus.

Two figures lurched out from the stone coffins, shambling on their lanky legs. The skin was drawn tight over their bones, and it was stringy and of a sickly pale colour, which looked light blue in the faint light of the fungus.

Their faces were the worst, the lips rotted away, showing dirty, crooked teeth, and the eye sockets empty, black pits above jutting cheekbones.

"By the Nine," Keljarn breathed. "Walking dead?"

"Draugr," Farkas said with a nod, raising his weapon. "Our long-dead ancestors."

"Rising from the grave to protect ancient Nordic artifacts?" Keljarn asked.

"Something like that."

They were slow, but the weapons they bore looked brutal enough. One carried an old, rusted hatchet, and the other wielded a greatsword. The slowly advanced on Keljarn and Farkas, blocking their escape.

"How do we kill them?" Keljarn asked.

"Like you kill everything else," Farkas grunted. "I hope." He licked his lips, flexed his neck and said, "Let's get 'em!"

With a roar, Farkas threw himself forward, right at the shambling figure with the axe. Moments later, Keljarn did the same, his one-handed axe swinging in a wide arc at the draugr holding the greatsword.

Despite their shambling gait, the draugr were surprisingly fast when springing into action, and the walking corpse blocked the axe with the blade of its swords, making sparks spring off the blades. It struck back, whacking a rotten elbow into the side of Keljarn's head. As Keljarn staggered backward, dizzy from the blow, the draugr swung again, and only pure reflex saved Keljarn's abdomen from being split open as he let himself fall backwards, out of the arc of the massive blade. He came down hard on his backside, and the draugr raised his greatsword to split him in two with a powerful downward blow. With a yelp, Keljarn rolled to the side, and the blade struck the rock with a dry crack.

Sweeping his leg, Keljarn kicked both of the undead's legs out from under it, and the creature fell on the ground, bones snapping as it came down. From its prone position, it feebly swung its greatsword at the rising Keljarn, but he side-stepped the clumsy blow easily, and brought his axe down on the creature's throat, making the vertebrae snap and splinter, beheading it in one blow. He hoped that was enough, and it was. The draugr lay still.

He spun around to help Farkas, but there was no need, as Farkas shoved the draugr back with a hard front kick and then brought his weapon down on its collarbone, splitting its torso diagonally down its length with a massive blow, his weapon crunching ribs as it came down, chopping into the creature's body all the way to the abdomen, where it got stuck. He kicked out again, kicking the draugr off his weapon and it fell to the ground, the unlife driven from it.

"Whew," Farkas remarked with a grin. "Pretty spry for their age, huh?"

"Age hasn't done wonders for their body odour though," Keljarn grunted, as he became aware of the dry, dusty smell of decay in his nostrils. "Let's go, be nice to see the sun again."

"The clouds, you mean?"

"Doesn't matter. The sky at any rate."

There were no more traps or ambushes, and they again made their way past the shredded remains of the cowards that had ambushed them. The Silver Hand, they'd called themselves. Keljarn wondered what their deal was, but Farkas had said he'd get everything explained to him in due time, and despite his usually loquacious nature, he didn't reveal anything more, even when prodded.

Keljarn closed his eyes in relief when he found himself under the cloudy, drizzly sky again. It was rotten weather, but at least it wasn't a damp cave filled with bedamned walking corpses.

He felt a hand clap on his shoulder and stumbled from the sudden force.

With a laugh, Farkas told him, "Not a bad job, initiate. Even Skjor will be impressed when I tell him you took on a draugr all on your own. Well, he'll never show it, of course."

"No, didn't peg him for the type to throw me flowers."

"Let's head on back. We've got what we came for, and we're overdue for a bottle of mead!"


	13. Siari: Sanctuary

**.**

**SIARI**

**Sanctuary**

**The Black Door**

"This is the place," Astrid said to Siari as they stood in front of a strange black door. It seemed to lead to a cave hewn out of the rock. The black stone, if seen from the right angle, had a relief of a skull and a hand carved into it. "If you come through this door with me, there is no way back. We keep no secrets from you, nor you from us. You will be family."

Siari nodded. She'd never had a family, like Astrid had guessed an hour ago. Being part of one, even if it was a family of murderers, would be the most wonderful thing that could happen to her. The fact that they were killers rather than farmers or blacksmiths might even be an advantage. Murderers had to look out for each other, trust each other, depend on each other. For the first time in a long while, Siari's heart raced. She said nothing, but nodded and smiled. She could wish for nothing more than to finally have a family.

"Then from now on, you are our blood," Astrid said, then turned to the door.

An ethereal, sibilant voice like the smell of rot on the wind asked, "What is the music of life?"

Astrid replied with, "Silence, my brother."

The voice spoke again, but this time Siari knew it was speaking to her and not Astrid. "Welcome home."

The words made her heart quicken even more.

"Come," Astrid said. "Time to meet your new family."

They descended the roughly-hewn stairs into an antechamber, also cut out of the rock. A table was set in the middle, a map of Skyrim rolled out on it. A burly Nord with long white hair stood waiting. For some reason, he only wore tattered pants, leaving his broad, scarred chest bare… and he seemed to walk bare-footed as well. For some reason.

"So who's this veal cutlet?" the Nord rumbled, crossing his arms in front of his muscled chest. "We adopting teenagers off the street now?"

That… wasn't exactly welcoming.

"Meet my husband Arnbjorn," Astrid said motherly. "Don't worry, he's a little rough around the edges, but his heart is in the right place. We have no secrets here, so tell her Arnbjorn?"

"Ugh," the Nord grunted, rolling his eyes, then said to Siari, "Fine, if Astrid says you're family, then I suppose I have to." He paused. "I'm a werewolf. If I call you names, it's because I have trouble not seeing you as food. Will that be a problem, rack of lamb?"

After briefly having to make sense of his words, Siari shook her head.

Astrid made to introduce her. "Arnbjorn, this is…" Then she realized she'd never asked Siari's name. "…Hm. I spent a lot of time tracking you down but I never did catch your name, Sister."

Uh… yeah, that'd be a little difficult. As always when people asked her name… well, not as always, most of the time she just kept silent, but when she did feel inclined to say her name, she made a writing gesture.

"Wait… you want something to write?" Astrid asked, not understanding.

Siari nodded.

Astrid searched for a piece of parchment on the table but found nothing. So she simply turned over the Skyrim map and gave her a quill. "Here, you can write on the back of this."

Arnbjorn snorted in disapproval, but Siari took the quill and wrote her name.

"What's that? SEE-a-ree?"

Siari wagged a finger and placed it on her name, making an upward line as it went over the -i- and then the -a-.

"Oh… si-AH-ree?"

With a smile, Siari nodded enthusiastically.

Astrid's face turned to a frown though. "Now, Sister, since we have no secrets here, you don't have to be afraid to talk."

"Yeah," Arnbjorn added. "Cat got your tongue?"

She realized she shouldn't keep it a secret, so after a moment's hesitation, she opened her mouth wide. Arnbjorn stayed rather unmoved, but she saw Astrid's eyes flinch above her mask. "Damn…" she breathed. "It's… gone?"

Siari could only nod. She wasn't hiding it in her gullet, if that's what they thought.

As if it was the most normal question in the world, Arnbjorn asked, "So how do you swallow?"

Cocking her head, Siari swallowed, making sure he saw the movement in her throat. Like everyone else, of course. How else?

"Who did this to you?" Astrid asked, her eyes concerned.

Siari shrugged and shook her head. It didn't matter.

"Alright. Maybe you'll tell us in time." Astrid extended her hand toward the stairs that led deeper into the lair. "Go have a look around the Sanctuary. Get acquainted with the others. Keep no secrets from them, they'll keep none from you. You're family now, and we all trust each other. Without trust, none of us can survive."

Arnbjorn crossed his arms and rumbled, "Take some time 'til I can trust this little chicken wing. She looks so frail I'm afraid of breathing too hard at her."

"This path does not require strength or brawn, Arnbjorn. You know that," Astrid said patiently. "Now go on, Sister, explore your new home."

Oh, no. There was one thing left to do before that. Siari made a gesture of pulling a mask down, then pointed at Astrid.

With a laugh, the woman said, "Fine, I suppose you're right." And with a swift motion, she took her mask off, revealing the face of a Nord woman in her mid-thirties, good-looking but with a hard, determined face. Two long braids of brown hair with tinges of grey hung down her back. She looked a bit... anticlimactic. Somehow Siari had expected something... more spectacular. Still, when she thought of it, it was only to be expected that Astrid looked normal. Killers were normal people too. She was even glad for it, in fact. Who knows how she _could have_ looked. "Now go on, meet with everyone else. Arnbjorn and I have... business to discuss."

Siari was only fifteen, but she knew damn well what kind of 'business' Astrid and her husband had to discuss. And she knew damn well she should leave them to it.

She descended the uneven stairs, in the flickering light of the torches along the way and wondered how it was that the torches kept burning without sucking all the air from the place. Probably a ventilation shaft somewhere. She emerged into a large cave, with a small waterfall and tiny pond in the back. A large round stained glass window was set in the far wall, torches flickering behind it, making the red-and-black skeletal hand motif in the window cast an eerie writhing shadow on the cave ground. What a strange place, yet all the morbidity of it didn't scare her in the least. For a group of assassins, it was obvious how useful it would be to have a terrifying image, and cultivating an image began at home. And after all, it was an assassin's guild. It's not like she was expecting tapestries with flower motifs and cuddly stuffed animals in every corner.

Astrid had told her to meet her new family, but there was no one there. In the left-hand corner stood an assortment of smithing gear, which Siara had no idea how to operate. Carefully, she stepped through the cave, towards the stairs leading back up into a smaller corridor at the far end. When she passed, she heard a raspy laugh from next to her, extremely closely. She jumped at the noise.

"Startle you, did I, child?"

When she looked closely, she saw there was an Argonian sitting there, almost invisible in the shadows. His scales were dark with a green shine, and he seemed to blend into the environment. Still shaky, Siari nodded.

"Someone new used the door, so we know Astrid's welcomed a new family member. My name is Veezara, and I am one of the Shadowscales, one of the last. Welcome to Astrid's little family."

Siara frowned at the nomination of it being Astrid's little family.

The Argonian had picked up on it and said, "I call it Astrid's family because despite the close bond we have, Astrid leads this Sanctuary, and her word is law."

Hm, Siari supposed the authoritarian way was _one_ way to lead a family. And as long as it was within limits... Then again, Siari had to admit to herself that she longed to be accepted into a family, _any_ family, and how it was led wouldn't change that. Besides, what she'd seen of Astrid so far had been motherly and a bit condescending, but accepting and much warmer than she'd expected from an assassin.

"You seem... a young lady of few words?" the Argonian observed.

Siari didn't feel like showing the inside of her mouth to everyone there, so she just shrugged and nodded, to which the Argonian reacted with a raspy chuckle. "Certainly not a bad thing in our line of work."

"This our new arrival?" a deep male voice asked. In one of the doorways stood a Redguard, dressed in dark red, with two scimitars in his belt. He had a moustache and pointed goatee and wore a turban on his head. "The new addition to our dwindling, dysfunctional little family?"

"The same," the Argonian confirmed.

"I see," the Redguard said, looking wary. "You look awfully young. At least, for someone who was just picked up off the street."

"Most assassins here in the Brotherhood," the Argonian explained, "are either trained from a very young age, or coaxed away from other guilds."

Siari nodded.

"Still," the Redguard said, "If Astrid thinks you have potential, then who am I to argue? Let's hope it's more than three days before someone runs a knife across your throat. My name is Nazir. Yours?"

Siari snatched a piece of paper and a nugget of charcoal from the smithing workbench and wrote down her name.

"Can't speak?"the Redguard asked curtly, reading the piece of paper. Siari shook her head. "Well, at least you won't be bad for the peace and quiet around here then. Come, I'll introduce you to the others."

Sure, being introduced was always nice. She followed the Redguard as he walked up the stairs set in the far wall of the atrium. They led to several small rooms hewn out of the mountain, by human hands, probably an expansion of the natural cave. One was a small central room with a table and an alchemy workbench, and around it were hewn small bedrooms. At the table sat an old man dressed in a red and black robe, and a child that looked no older than nine. She hadn't thought about it yet, but she realized now that she'd expected to have been the youngest one there.

The two were having a conversation and went on with it as Siari and the Redguard entered.

"So I was all like, 'but sir, I'm just a little girl', and he just gave me this really creepy look and said, 'I know, but I won't tell anyone if you won't'."

The old man scrunched his wrinkled face up in disgust.

The child went on, enthusiastic about her own story, "You should have _seen_ the look on his face when he realized he wasn't getting into my dress, or anyone else's either." The giggle she made after it sounded childlike, but the way she told her story, anything but. "His neck snapped like a twig."

The old man harrumphed. "You let him off easy. I would have set fire to his feet, his fingers, and then his – "

The child flapped her hand at him. "Yeah I know, I know, you're always 'fire fire fire'."

He shrugged. "He would have deserved no less."

The child turned to Siari and her guide. "Oh, but Festus, we're being rude. We should greet our new family member."

The old man laughed hoarsely and said, "Indeed we should." In the gloomy cave room, lit only by a few torches set against the wall, the whole scene looked cosy and homely. The creepy atmosphere they'd tried to create in the atrium obviously didn't extend to the living area. "Welcome to the Brotherhood, young lady."

"The Brother- and _Sister_hood," the child corrected.

The old man gave the child a weary look before continuing, "You're the one that bled that nasty old biddy in the orphanage in Riften, yes?"

Siari nodded and the Redguard introduced her. "Her name's Siari. She doesn't speak." Nice and blunt.

"Good riddance on that crone in the orphanage, I say," the old man told her.

"Oh, but", the child took over, "the job was _pret_-ty amateuristic. Beginner stuff if you ask me."

Siari gave a lopsided shrug. Of course it was 'beginner stuff'. It's not like she'd been trained to do it or anything.

The Argonian, who'd followed them up the stairs, seemed to agree. "We all had to start somewhere, Babette. Not everyone's had the benefit of all your years of experience."

Siari thought the Argonian was being sarcastic, but the child's reaction puzzled her. Rather than defending herself or calling the Argonian out on what Siari thought was a veiled insult, she leaned back, thought for a second and said, "No, you're right. Sometimes I forget."

"Don't worry about this old curmudgeon," the old man said, referring to the young child. "This is Babette, and my name is Festus Krex. We all have our speciality here in the Brotherhood." The child made to correct him again, but thought better of it. "Veezara here can sneak up on anyone and anything, Astrid handles all the leadership duties, Arnbjorn can pull the arms off a troll, and Babette... well, I'll let her explain."

With a smirk that was as snooty as it was adorable, the child explained, "You have _no_ idea how easy it is to get close to people if you look like a kid. Most people are all, 'aww but she's just a child, she's totally harmless'. Even people like guards and soldiers fall for it. Because you know, who's going to suspect a little kid?"

"And underestimating Babette," the old man clarified, "is the always the first and last mistake her marks make."

Siari blinked. She didn't understand one bit of it. How could a child be so intelligent, so well-spoken? So coldly efficient? And even then, how could she possibly be an effective assassin? The minute she botched a job, it would be easy for her mark to overpower her, right?

The kid had picked up on it and she laughed. "See? You're underestimating me already too."

"Festus here is different from the rest of us," the Redguard moved the conversation along even though Siari was still wondering about the Babette girl. "He's not a big lover of blade or bow."

Oh? What then?

The old man grinned broadly and said, "You can have your bows and your poking irons. Sure, they're decent if you want to get all bloody, but I've got a far more effective weapon."

"At least he thinks so," Babette sneered.

The old man ignored her and continued, "You can be good at sticking pointy things into soft things that scream and bleed," he said, "but to use a knife, you need to get up close. And if your mark's aware there's a contract on him, you'll never be able to carry a bow anywhere near him. The weapon I have can't be seen or taken away." He paused for effect. When Siari made an inquisitive face, he continued, "They never expect a fireball from a dark doorway, or a jet of flame from behind a corner. And stabbing or shooting marks, pft, there's no spectacle in that. You really want to bring a message across, make your victim scream and flail in a big pillar of flame."

Ooh, the old man could cast spells. She'd heard of spellcasters, but never seen any in action.

"And lastly," the Redguard said, "There's Gabriella, our resident potion mixer. If you need someone poisoned, she's the one to talk to. She's working a job right now, but she'll be back in a day or two. And like I said, I'm Nazir. I handle the day-to-day affairs. Allocating contracts, finances, that sort of thing. Speaking of which, I've got a job for you right now. Get your paws wet, so to speak. This way."

"Aw, hey," the little girl protested. "We were just getting to know each other."

"Plenty of time for chit-chat later," Nazir dismissed her. "Well, one-sided chit-chat in this case."

Oh weren't we funny.

"Come on, I'll explain what needs to be done. Nothing too difficult. Who knows, you might even make it back."

It was nothing too difficult indeed, or at least that was what it looked like. She'd had a choice between three contracts, one a beggar near Ivarstead, one mine boss somewhere on the plains near Whiterun, or a miller living near Helgen, a town recently destroyed by a raging fire, supposedly caused by a dragon attack. Dragons, yeah right.

She'd chosen the beggar in Markarth, of course, since easy targets made for easy jobs. She might have been quite the overachiever when Astrid was looking, but she didn't feel the need to impress Nazir or prove her worth by taking a difficult target. A beggar was someone who couldn't defend himself and whom nobody would miss. A much better target than a miller, who could probably swing a flail pretty hard, or a mine boss, who was constantly in the company of his men and who could probably cleave the skull of any assassin who botched his job.

Beggar Narfi was his name, and he was a middle-aged Nord living in the ruins of his old family home. He'd be easily recognizable, Nazir had said. Just look for the enormous chin and side-burns wider than his shoulders. The man apparently looked like an honest-to-Nine ape. He'd lived together with his sister, but she had died or moved away, or whatever. And now someone wanted the man dead. It was a sad tale, but Siari, like the rest of the Brotherhood, wasn't supposed to sympathize. Strictly business.

She made it to Ivarstead easily enough, slogging the entire distance on foot and eating berries she found by the roadside, or simply pulling crops from the ground when she passed a farm. It was the season, so why not take advantage.

When she approached Ivarstead, she immediately noticed the ruined home a ways off. That was where Beggar Narfi would probably be found. And indeed, on a bench in front of the ruined house sat a man looking at a flower. As Siari watched, the man bent forward and picked another one, putting it between his fingers with the first. His mouth moved and an expression of pure grief came over the man's face. The description Nazir have given her had been accurate. He had a chin like an anvil and side-burns that looked like he'd glued two rabbits to his face.

Siari walked the distance to the house. She didn't intend to sneak up on him, just walk up to him and do the business.

She walked through the wild flowers and tall grass, holding her knife behind her back. There would be no reason for the man to be suspicious. The midday sun warmed her shoulders and a butterfly flitted from one flower to the other, then over Siari's head and away.

Beggar Narfi had seen her now, raising his head, the two mountain flowers still between his fingers. Siari was about to kill this man, and she'd always been told killing was a horrible thing that left people traumatized, but like with the other people she killed, she didn't feel a thing. She was doing what she was told, and that's all she needed to know.

"Hello there," the man greeted her when she came to stand in front of him. "What brings you here on such a fine day?"

Siari didn't say anything – how could she – and the man's eyes told her he realized why she was here.

"Fine," he merely said. "I have nothing to live for anyway. Just get it over with."

Siari took the knife from behind her back and thrust it forwards, between the man's ribs, next to his sternum. Cold, clean, efficient. As the man died and slumped forward, falling down in the tall grass, his fingers still held the two mountain flowers.


	14. Acrus: Under Saarthal

**.**

**ACRUS**

**Under Saarthal**

**College Excavation Site**

"J'Zargo," the Dunmer student said to the Khajiit, pointing at the other student's lower half. "What on Nirn is that?"

The Khajiit chuckled. "J'Zargo is trying some new things. Tight things. These pants will make J'Zargo stand out. Going to get myself a woman." And with another chuckle, he nudged his chin at the Nord apprentice. "This one cannot help but stare."

"Excuse me, brother," the Nord said. "But you've got a real nice lump down there."

"Say what?" Acrus interrupted, disgusted.

"I said, a real nice lump down there."

"Hey!" Acrus snapped. What kind of perverts were these? Were these his fellow apprentices? "Get a damn room!"

"For three?" the Dunmer woman asked with a lopsided sneer. "Would you like to taste for yourself?"

"I – what – _no_!" Acrus shouted. What in blazes was going on here? It wasn't that the Dunmer apprentice was good-looking or anything, but he still didn't want to be made out to be a deviant in front of a woman.

"Now, now," the Nord apprentice said with a laugh. "Let's not take the piss out of new guy too much."

Oh, so that was what it was. Some newbie hazing. Acrus knew he had to cut that shit short as soon as it started. Nip it in the bud. "Yeah, I suggest you leave that be in the future, unless you want to be wearing your ass as a hat."

The Nord's laugh was instantly gone. Good, he'd made himself clear. "Oh, you're one of _those_ guys."

"Don't worry, your majesty," the Khajiit added. "J'Zargo and his fellow students will look elsewhere for humour."

"You do that," Acrus grunted. There. They knew there was no messing with him. Taking him for some sod that could be made fun of whenever they liked, unacceptable. You had to react quickly and decisively to that kind of behaviour, or they mocked you for the rest of your carreer.

Looking away, he resumed hugging himself and stomping his feet against the cold. Acrus and the three apprentices were standing at the edge of a hole in the earth, easily twenty metres across, in the evening twilight, freezing their toes off, the snow ankle-deep and more falling every second. Tolfdir, the man who'd blasted the unexpected fireball at Acrus, had told them to wait for him there.

His fellow students. One Nord, who looked like just about every Nord in Tamriel, rugged and square-chinned, pale-skinned and dim of intellect. A Khajiit who looked like every Khajiit in Tamriel except with longer whiskers, furry and feline, oozing untrustworthiness and deceit, and a Dunmer woman who looked like every Dunmer in Tamriel, a narrow, ashen face with perpetually angled eyebrows and a face that radiated a mixture of boredom and arrogance. He'd shared the bed with a Dunmer woman once. The woman had lain there like a dead horse. Never again.

"There's Tolfdir," the Dunmer woman remarked. "He's late."

The old man shuffled towards them through the snow, his beard swaying in the lazy breeze. "A wizard is never late," he said. "Now then, are we all accounted for?"

"Yes," Acrus said. "All four of us." What a dumb question that had been.

Tolfdir shot him an irritated look, then said, "When we head into the ruins, stay close to me. This place is not free from danger, and apprentices have the unfortunate habit of being eaten by monsters or falling down chasms in the dark."

As if a little danger scared Acrus. The wild dog that had attacked his village could testify to that. The beast had run back to its cave whining, with half its fur singed off. Acrus was sure he'd be able to manage not falling down chasms or not soiling his britches from the occasional rat of unusual size.

A ramp led into the dig site, a rickety wooden construction mounted on stilts and hammered into the edge of the excavation, making two straight turns until it reached the bottom. It wobbled as the group of five went down, but Tolfdir didn't seem alarmed, and so, neither was Acrus. The man had probably descended that ramp many times, so he probably knew what it could take.

"J'Zargo thinks Nords and Imperials are too heavy for rickety old ramps."

Their instructor laughed wheezily. "It'll be fine, don't worry. Our footing might not be as light as yours, but if this ramp can take a cart full of stones, it can carry a few lightweight students as well."

Acrus wondered if he meant anything by the word 'lightweight'.

"Now then," Tolfdir said. "We're heading into the excavation site of Saarthal, an old Nordic ruin. Before we go, is there anything I should know?"

"Such as?" the Dunmer woman asked.

"Oh, claustrophobia, achluophobia, agrizoophobia, bathophobia, things like that."

Acrus wasn't afraid of small spaces, the dark, wild animals, or depths, and he hoped none of his fellow students were either. He didn't feel like getting stuck with a whimpering, paralytic sack of flesh in the throes of some phobia or other. Thankfully, all the students replied in the negative, and they reached the bottom of the dig without problems.

Tolfdir took hold of the knob of the hastily-put-together door that sealed off what looked like a cave. "Now then, we're entering the ruins of Saarthal now. I must again ask that you stay close to me. Even you, J'Zargo. I know you're Khajiit, but I don't want to take the risk of having to look for your body at the bottom of a ravine."

"J'Zargo will not stray far, promised," the Khajiit said, in his peculiar accent. A promise from a Khajiit. Almost as valuable as a cow meat groin protector when fighting a daedroth.

"Very well, let's go inside."

Tolfdir opened the door, leading them into the darkness. They could see nothing apart from what was right in front of them and catching the light of the doorway leading outside. The gentle dripping of moisture from the cave walls was the only sound apart from the shuffling of the four people now inside the cave. "Brelyna", Tolfdir said, almost invisible even at a distance of a mere two metres, "I hope you've done your homework?"

"I have, Master Alterer Tolfdir," the Dunmer woman said proudly. Acrus felt the pinpricks on his skin from the magicka weave being manipulated, but where the feeling was subtle and consistent when master mages did it, the sensation on his skin was jarring and erratic when this apprentice tried. The next moment, a tiny little light rose from the Dunmer's hands, flitting up a few centimetres before extinguishing in a feeble flicker. Acrus resisted the urge to sneer, even though no one could see him in the darkness. If this was all these students were capable of, he'd have a promising career here. Not that that wasn't already the case.

"I... Forgive me, Master Alterer," the woman called Brelyna stammered. "I practiced this so... uh, so many times, but..."

"It's alright," their instructor said gently, his voice disembodied in the darkness. "As long as you're with me, you can make so many mistakes it makes the rocks crack. What matters is that you've mastered your craft when you go out there, into that great big world. Now. Take a breath and try again."

"Yes, Master Alterer." Acrus could actually _hear_ the woman taking a deep breath to steady herself.

"Now, gently but firmly weave the threads of magicka. Take your time. Speed comes with experience."

There was a moment of silence and again Acrus felt the weave being manipulated, this time more slowly and with less jerky movements. It lasted for a second or three, and then an unsteadily-flickering globe of light emerged from the Dunmer's hand, rising up with determination despite its small size and inconsistent strength. Still, it was enough to illuminate the area a few metres around them, and Acrus supposed it would do. The Illusion school had never been his area of expertise, but he figured it was decent enough for an apprentice to be able to keep a globe of light suspended in the air, even one as puny as this.

"Yes, well done," Tolfdir praised. "Needs some more practice, but it's a promising start."

Pft. How was this a promising start? If Acrus had practiced the Light spell, he was certain he could do better with only a few hours of work. Of course, Illusion wasn't his field, but still. Light was the cantrip of all cantrips.

"Shall we move on, Master Alterer?" the Nord asked. First smart thing he'd said all day.

"Yes, let's see what these ruins hold in store for us." As if he didn't already know. This was an exercise, he'd hardly send them into unknown territory.

They proceeded through the dark tunnels, only slightly illuminated by Brelyna's poor excuse for a Light spell. The walls were slick and wet, and more than once, Acrus had to wipe his hands on his robe, cursing under his breath. The robe was good for washing anyway, after the slog through the snow and slush.

"Now then," Tolfdir said with a contented sigh. "Here we are."

They stood in an open room where three smaller caves crossed paths. "Brelyna, since you possess the Light spell, I'll need you to go into the east cave. The farthest we've gone is to a fork where the ceiling lowers. You'll have to crawl for a bit. I need you to take this little trinket and look for anything magickal. It's set to start vibrating when it detects magickal resonance."

"Yes, Master Alterer," the woman acknowledged. In the faint light of her feeble little globe, Acrus could see the apprehension. Looked like the ashface wasn't so keen on crawling through narrow shafts.

"J'Zargo, Onmund," Tolfdir said, "You're coming with me. There's a barrier I'd like you both to try your Destruction skills on."

Both apprentices nodded.

"As for you," Tolfdir told Acrus, "you'll assist Arniel Gane, one of our master Conjurers, in locating magickal items. He's in the west hallway somewhere." He chuckled. "Hope you're not afraid of the dark."

"Wait, wait," Acrus protested. "I have to find my way in the _dark_?"

"What did you expect, apprentice?" the Alteration master asked. Acrus could _hear_ him smirk. "A torch? A mage has no need for something as dangerous as fire when he can just make light by using the weave. Now then, off you go."

"You can't be serious," Acrus blurted out. Exploring a cave in the dark was _dangerous_. You could slip and fall, breaking a bone or five, or bang your head on the ceiling, or any other kind of potentially deadly accident could happen.

"Oh you big crybaby," Tolfdir laughed, digging in his robes and fishing out a short rod with a gem on the end. He frowned at it, almost unnoticeably, and the big gem lit up with a pale blue light. "There you go, this should be sufficient."

Setting his jaw, Acrus muttered a thank you. He took the rod and set off, indignant at being so talked down to. Who did this old coot think he was? Just because he'd had years and years and years to study magick didn't mean he had licence to just humiliate him.

He navigated through the dark caves, not looking back and just grunting to himself in discontentment. Still, he resolved not to get angry, but to show everyone, both the disrespectful fellow students and the condescending teachers, that their dismissal of him was ill-placed. And he'd do it, not by shouting at them, but by studying diligently and proving them wrong. Revenge is a dish served cold, and making everyone look at their own boots in embarrassment was the best revenge he could have.

So let them kick him around. He who laughs last, laughs hardest.

Further down the corridor, he saw a faint red light illuminating the area around ten metres further. "Hello?" he carefully called out.

"Ah yes, hello," the man who'd conjured the light called back. He sat with his back to Acrus, kneeling over something. "You must be the new apprentice. Arcus, was it?"

"Acrus. Yes, that's me."

"Come closer, I'll explain what needs to be done."

Acrus did as he was told, almost slipping on the wet cave floor when it suddenly sloped unexpectedly. "Damn this rathole," he growled. As he did so, his foot again slipped out from under him as he put his weight on loose stones that rolled out from beneath his soles. Seemed this particular cave had just been opened.

"Quite. Now then," the man said, standing upright. He held up a hand, showing a small circle of metal, glinting in the red light of his conjuration. "We've just opened this path," he explained, "and this shows we're on the right track." Acrus looked closer and saw, in the faint red light, that the man was holding a ring.

"I take it that's enchanted?" Acrus said. Of course it was. The College wouldn't care about some stupid band of copper.

"So it is." Arniel Gane was an old Breton, bald as a marble save for the wreath of gray hair at the back of his skull. "And where there's one, there's usually more. You can assist me in the search."

A scavenger hunt? Really? _That_ was what they needed the apprentices for? Worst of all, he'd be baby-sit by this old geezer while the two male students could let themselves go against some kind of barrier, and that dark elf could search on her own. Great.

"What's wrong, apprentice? Do you find this task beneath you?" The old wrinkled Breton was frowning at him.

"No, no, of course not," Acrus said quickly, hiding his disgruntlement with ease. "I was... just thinking." He had to come up with a good excuse for his frown real quick, and did so, "about how difficult it'll be to find these items with what little light we have."

"Ah," the Conjurer said, all suspicion gone from his face. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to keep our eyes open, no?"

"You wouldn't happen to have any amulets that detect magickal resonance, would you?" Acrus asked hopefully.

"No, I fear Tolfdir has taken them all." He stood thinking for a moment, his hands in his sides. For a few seconds only the drip of water from the stalactites could be heard. Then, far off, there was a distant whooshing sound, almost inaudible. Seemed like J'Zargo and Onmund were trying their best at the barrier. Why the old coot hadn't asked Acrus with him was a mystery. Destruction was his specialty.

The red light floating around the Conjurer disappeared, and promptly appeared again as the old man renewed the spell. It took him even less effort than Tolfdir, and the light itself seemed to be more than just an illusion. Acrus could swear the glowing orb moved with determination rather than in a set pattern, or not moving at all, as light illusions often did.

"I see you're taking an interest in my magick?"

"Uh, yes," Acrus said. "It doesn't move like a regular Light spell."

"Of course not," the man said proudly. "That's because it's not a spell from the school of Illusion. This is, in fact, a Conjuration. A creature summoned to provide assistance."

"Huh. That makes sense."

"It's from the plane of Oblivion, but I'm not sure what it is exactly. It's friendly enough at any rate."

Acrus looked closely at the lazily cavorting globe of light and saw what looked to be a kind of glowing moth, only this one didn't flap its wings. "Amazing."

The Conjurer grinned. "Glad you think so. Now then, to work."

"Right. I suppose we're looking and feeling around in the dark?"

"Aye," the Conjurer answered. "We should get to it. You start looking on the far side of the chamber. Notify me when you've found anything abnormal, no matter how slight."

"Understood." Hmph. When people wanted to be notified of every little thing, it meant they didn't have much faith in the other's decision making capabilities. Another insult. Holding the staff low to the ground, Acrus began searching, meticulously covering every inch both with his eyes and with his hands. It would not do to miss an item.

He kept feeling and looking around, in the dim white light of the staff, running his hands over the light beige rock.

Wait, he'd touched something. "Master Conjurer?"

"Yes?"

"I think I've got something." He held the staff closer to the spot and saw a shining, multifaceted stone sticking out. "Over here." Yep, that was definitely something.

The Conjurer came closer and sat on his knees next to him, inspecting the shiny bit. After a few seconds, he chuckled. "Sorry, son. That's a piece of good old geode."

"Geode?"

"Yes. You don't know how to recognize different stones?"

Acrus felt his face get warm. "Well..."

The Conjurer chuckled and rose. "There's a good bock on minerals in Urag gro-Shub's library. If you have some free time after lectures, it makes for some fascinating reading."

"I'll keep that in mind, Master Conjurer," he said meekly, inwardly irritated at the man's smugness.

"Still, good that you notified me."

Condescending jackass.

Redoubling his efforts, he resumed searching. As he did, his concentration gradually waned until he found himself daydreaming of home, and the one thing that had kept him there: Anorra, his golden-haired miracle. He'd been happy then. Not the brief elation one felt when achieving something, not the contentment one had when lazing in the sun on a warm afternoon, no, true happiness, the constant and heart-filling kind. He almost couldn't remember what it was like, not wanting other women, not seeing them as fleeting conquests to either suavely woo into bed, or to get them there with a combination of a lot of wine and a little physical coercion. He'd been happy then. And his happiness had only grown when she'd accepted his marriage proposal.

A proposal for which he now cursed himself, every day. Because if there had been no proposal, there wouldn't have been a pre-nuptial ladies' drinking night, and Anorra wouldn't have drunk herself into complete besottedness, and Anorra wouldn't have drunkenly walked out into the afternoon streets of Cyrodiil, right in front of a rambling cart. She'd been dragged along by the wheels a few metres before the cart had stopped, and her drinking night had ended before the night had even fallen, her body reduced to a twisted and wrenched sack of broken bones and ruptured organs, a trail of blood and puke and shit behind her on the cobblestones.

Every time he treated a girl less well than he should, he simply told himself that if what happened to Anorra was meant to happen, then so was what he did to them. Gods weren't the only ones who could play that game.

He became aware of a tickling sensation on his cheek and wiped the tear away. As he replaced his hand, a metal object pricked into it, driving the leaden thoughts from his head. Before calling out, he brought the staff closer, making sure it wasn't just another geode. He had no intention of being seen as a moron twice in one hour.

The thing that stuck out was a blue and gold object, partially sunken into the stone. This was worth calling to the Conjurer for.

"Master Conjurer! Not a geode this time."

The man shuffled over to him, and his red moth-like light illuminated the object even better. "Oh dear me," he said quietly. "Not a geode indeed." He took a closer look.

"It looks like... an amulet?" Acrus dared to venture.

"Yes. Yes indeed. Stay here, I'll go get Tolfdir. Don't touch that thing, you never know what kind of accidents can happen."

"Of course, I'll sit tight," Acrus said. He had, of course, no intention of doing so. As the Conjurer shuffled off to find his fellow old coot, Acrus extended his hand toward the item again. Its edges looked pretty sharp, but not sharp enough to cause injuries, and when he held his fingertips closer, the barely perceptible feeling of magickal energy brushed his skin, like the wispy threads of a spider's web carried on the wind.

He brought his fingertips even closer, and now he clearly felt the resonance, the threads of energy undulating out of it. He concentrated on the patterns made by the wildly emanating threads and with pure focus and mental willpower, made them align, twist around each other, and become a bundled cord of pure energy, the cord tightening and strengthening until –

A flash of white blasted through Acrus, knocking him flat on his behind. Everything, including thought, became a blur as he flailed around for a handhold, drunkenly snatching at the air. His hearing was gone, and his sight only registered the blurry and doubled light of the staff he'd dropped.

"Hey! Are you alright?"

Acrus tried to speak, but his mouth only produced unintelligible, slack-jawed babble.

"Some sort of backlash. Hey! Can you hear me?"

The voices came from far away, and when Acrus slowly and drunkenly turned his head, he saw the red moth-like light fly through a crack in the wall, circle around his head a few times, then fly back.

Clarity slowly came back to him, and the ringing in his ears and spinning of his vision lessened. What in Oblivion had happened?

"Can you hear me, boy?"

Tolfdir's voice. A mixture of concerned and annoyed. Heh, probably because he'd succeeded in manipulating that amulet and stolen the old man's moment of grandstanding. "I c... an hear you," Acrus slurred.

"I thought I told you to leave it alone?" the Conjurer's voice came from the same direction.

"We would... still be living in a world without... magick if we all listened to the people... telling us to be careful," Acrus said, paraphrasing his old mentor. It only got him a disapproving grunt in return.

"Can you stand?" Tolfdir asked.

Acrus tried, fell back down on his ass, and tried again, with more success this time. The disorientation was mostly gone now, and he felt himself more able to think and act straight. "What's... did the walls cave in?"

"So they did," Tolfdir said. Acrus only now realized the old coot couple were speaking through a small crack between the fallen boulders. Oh no, was he trapped in here? It would take hours, if not days, to dig him out.

"Wait, I'm not... trapped, am I?"

"From the looks of it, you are."

Acrus felt warmth rush to his head and his heartbeat quickened. Oh no, no, no. Don't let him be trapped.

"Calm down, boy," Tolfdir admonished him. "You've freed the amulet from the stone. If it can move walls once, it can do it again. Go on, put it on."

Still rattled from the blast, Acrus gingerly let the amulet's chain go over his head and around his neck.

"Good, now reach out to it."

Acrus did so, trying to identify the currents of magicka emanating from the amulet, and direct them into a powerful and focused force. The threads whipped and writhed and he had the greatest difficulty to keep them under control, but he didn't give up, and eventually, the energies bent to his will, again coiling around each other to form a focused and directed energy.

Without thinking, operating purely on feeling, Acrus directed the amulet's magick towards a nearby wall.

With a blinding flash of light, the wall blew apart, debris flying away from the blast. One sharp fragment of rock went only a hair length past his head.

"Yes, well done!" Tolfdir cheered. "I believe that explosion just uncovered a previously inaccessible section of the ruins."

The hole made by the amulet was big enough to both open the way back to the others, and to reveal a previously unexplored section of the ruins.

Tolfdir laboriously squeezed in between the fallen rubble. "Come, let's go further in. This is _fascinating_."

The students followed, but Arniel Gane remained behind. "Master Alterer, I'll return to the College, send word of what's going on. It might be dangerous and the College needs to know where we are. I'll return as quickly as possible."

"Very well Arniel. Be careful."

"I believe that advice is best extended towards you rather than me," the bald man said with a grin. With that, he turned and walked back to the entrance, his red moth-light dancing around his head.

Tolfdir seemed inclined to let Acrus lead, and Acrus knew better than to let such a chance go to waste. He stepped towards the newly-created opening, and as his foot first set down on the floor of a newly-revealed cave, an apparition appeared, just forming out of thin air!

"You have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped," the apparition intoned. It looked like an Altmer wizard of some sort, but Acrus couldn't make it out, nailed to the ground as he was. The apparition was looking straight at him. "Judgment will be passed based on your actions to come and how you fare against the dangers ahead. We pass this warning onto you because the Psijic order believes in you, and because you alone have the potential to prevent disaster." With that, the ghost winked out of existence.

"Son, are you alright?" Tolfdir's hoarse voice brought him back to reality.

"Did you... did you see that?" Acrus breathed. "The... the ghost, or manifestation or... whatever it was?"

"No," Tolfdir said. "I haven't seen anything." He looked back at the students, who all shook their heads.

"It... spoke to me. Told me about some kind of danger ahead, and the Psijic order believing in me..."

"That's... odd," Tolfdir said. "There's no known connections between the Psijic order and these ruins. No one has even seen them in ages."

The old coot didn't believe him! "Well it was there and it spoke to me!" Acrus snapped.

"Settle down, son," Tolfdir quickly backed down. "I didn't say I doubted you. Just that it was odd. Perhaps we should look for answers deeper in the ruins?"

"Maybe."

The corridor went on, twisting and winding its way underground. This looked like a natural cave, used as part of the complex because it had already been there when the place was hewn out of the stone.

"Look, Master Alterer," the Dunmer woman said, pointing forward. "Over there."

Acrus could make it out too, it was a throne of some sort, and someone was sitting on it. Surely whoever was still here would be long dead?

They carefully came closer, and as they did, Acrus saw he was right. The body sitting on the throne was a desiccated, lifeless corpse, decayed to the point of being nothing more than wires of mummified flesh stretched over a skeleton.

"Intriguing," Brelyna remarked, "yet highly disturbing."

"Well," Tolfdir remarked. "It seems we've found Jyrik Gauldurson."

"Jyrik who?" the Khajiit asked.

"Gauldurson," the Nord apprentice clarified. "You're a student in the College and you've never heard the name Gauldurson?"

"I... eh... should I have?" the Khajiit asked. Apparently he should have, yes.

"Jyrik Gauldurson was one of the three sons of Lord Gauldur, the erstwhile Archmage of the College of Winterhold," Onmund explained, then stopped himself. "Ah, but... of course Master Alterer Tolfdir can tell the story better than I can?" Slimy toad.

"No, no," the old man said. "Go ahead, you're doing fine."

"Oh, thank you, Master Alterer." The Nord cleared his throat and went on. "Jyrik Gauldurson was the first to discover his father's power, a mysterious amulet, and he and his two brothers fought each other, coveting – "

"Master Alterer!" the Dunmer exclaimed, "Look! By the Nine!"

All heads whipped in the direction Brelyna had pointed and all of them felt their breaths stall in their throats. The mummified husk of a man, that had once been Jyrik Gauldurson, slowly gripped the arms of the throne and pulled itself to its feet.

"No time for history, my boy," Tolfdir commanded, bringing his staff up. "I doubt this thing is friendly."

"But, but..." Acrus stammered. "Surely he's dead? How does he even move?"

"It's a draugr," Onmund breathed.

"A what?"

"A draugr," Tolfdir repeated. "Restless dead of Nord myth. It would seem they're more than a myth after all, now get ready to take it down!"

"Take it down? How did you kill someone who was already dead?" The thing stood fully erect now, and its head turned towards them.

"You set it on fire until there's nothing left but ash," Tolfdir shouted, and with that, raised his staff. A searing bolt of fire shot out, catching the walking corpse right in the chest... but to no effect.

"This thing is invulnerable," Acrus heard the Khajiit exclaim behind him. "We should run!"

"Stand ground!" Tolfdir ordered. "We're mages of the College. This foe is a test and you are about to pass or fail!"

"Look out!" Brelyna shouted, throwing herself against Acrus and Onmund, her meagre weight striking with enough force to knock them out of the way of the murderously sharp ice shard the draugr had just sent towards them. Tolfdir, too, jerked his head out of the way in time, and the shard cracked apart on the cave wall. "Hit it!" the old man shouted. "Direct your magicka toward it!"

Easier said than done. Acrus, from his position on the floor, attempted to direct the energies around him into a firebolt spell, but as he concentrated on the weave, a blast of icy cold air struck him and he had to grit his teeth to bite the cold and pain, his muscles contracting and cramping in pain. The next moment, he heard the thing's voice, a dry, rattling croak. It shouted something, and the next moment, the Khajiit was lifted off his feet and propelled several metres back, smacking into the stone wall behind him.

Brelyna and Onmund did get their spells off, Onmund zapping the thing in the chest with a bolt of electricity and Brelyna erecting a shoddy and flimsy ward, that immediately fell apart when another shard of ice shattered itself against it.

Acrus again tried to channel the magickal energies, bundling them in his mind's eye to make for an acidic spray, but as he did so, he saw the threads of magicka, blackened and bleeding dark energy, flailing out of the corpse, toward a green orb on a pedestal a few feet behind him.

"The orb!" he shouted. "The orb's powering it!"

Tolfdir wasted no time and telekinetically lifted a large chunk of stone, sending it flying towards the green orb. The stone struck true, shattering the green crystal, and Acrus saw the blackened tendrils of magicka being severed, and wrapping themselves around the draugr like twisting, spasming snakes.

"Hit it with everything you've got!" Tolfdir shouted.

Acrus again bundled the threads of magicka around him, his and his fellows' vibrant and alive unlike the draugr's black, oozing tentacles, and with his willpower, made them turn acidic and sent them lashing out at the enemy. A green spray of acid hit the draugr in the face and it howled, staggering backward. It recovered and shouted again, "FUS... RO DAH!" and now Acrus felt himself being buffeted by a tremendous force, lifted off his feet and thrown several metres further. He felt his ribs crack as his body smacked hard into the cave wall, and pain exploded in his chest. Numbed by the blow, he could only look on as Onmund blew a large chunk out of the creature's chest with another flash of electricity, and finally Tolfdir set it ablaze with a jet of roaring fire, turning the thing into a roaring, flailing pillar of flame that staggered a few steps, then fell over on the cave floor, burning as it went.

They all fell silent for a moment, concentrated on the pile of carbonized, smouldering draugr, to be sure it wouldn't rise again.

"I think that's the last we'll see of Jyrik Gauldurson," the young Nord remarked.

"Let us hope so," Tolfdir agreed. "Is anyone injured?"

"J'Zargo got a little shaken and rattled, but no bones broken," the Khajiit groaned, rising from the floor.

"You seem like you weren't so lucky," the Dunmer said, coming to stand over Acrus with a grin. Acrus looked up at her and didn't find it all that much to grin about. Every breath he took sent excruciating pain through his ribcage.

She kneeled beside him and asked, "trouble breathing?"

Acrus couldn't help but nod.

"Broken ribs, most likely." She cocked her head at him. "I know a few simple Restoration spells. Nothing impressive but it might take the worst of the pain away?"

"By all means," Acrus grunted. It wasn't a time to be proud or refuse help. He was hurting, quite a lot.

The Dunmer nodded and put her hands on his chest. White light dimly faded in and out of existence, and he could feel his pain lessen. The ribs weren't healed, nowhere near it, but the pain was less, and that was a lot already.

"We should get him to Master Restorer Marence as soon as possible," Brelyna said to Tolfdir, who was busily sifting through the ashes of what was once Jyrik Gauldurson. He held up a shiny object, inspecting it, and then said, "Yes, we should. Is he badly injured?"

"Not fatal, I think," Brelyna said back, "but certainly serious."

"Very well, let's go then. I think we can all use a cup of mead."

"Master Alterer?" the Nord asked, pointing at the wall. "What's this?"

The wall was polished to a flat surface, and etched with all kinds of markings, always in groups of two or three. One group seemed to have threads of magickal energy contained in it, but even in his injured state, Acrus could see that whatever the energy was, it wasn't like the magick they commanded, and it was probably useless to them. It required a different conduit than a mage.

Tolfdir had established the same. "This, Onmund, is something we will never understand or be able to use. It's an ancient power, and it waits for someone other than us."

"Huh," was all Onmund had to say.

"Master Alterer," Brelyna insisted. "We should get him to the Master Restorer. My spell won't hold for very long."

"Yes," Tolfdir said. "We should go. I'll return later, but I think we've already found the most important thing." He held up the amulet, then looked at Acrus. "And I think this belongs with you."


	15. Roë: Awakening

**.**

**ROË**

**Awakening**

**Past Volunruud**

As she plodded on, Roë caught herself wishing she'd said no when Isran had asked her if she was well enough to travel. Her fever was breaking out badly, sending her into bouts of shaking and chills, cold sweat breaking out on her skin. Still it was only a fever and she'd had worse. Frostfire, she'd even walked an entire double-shift when ill with bowel wrench. As draining as this fever was, at least it didn't cause her to dash for the bushes every half hour.

She'd passed the landmark Tolan had pointed out on her map, an old Dwemer ruin called Volunruud, and now she was skirting a mountain, following its thin path upward. Higher up, on the far side of the mountain, should be Dimhollow Crypt, the place the vampires had been investigating. Tolan the Vigilant would probably already have arrived, having left a day before her. Even his stop at the Hall of the Vigilants for cremations couldn't have set him back more than half a day. Bah, cremations. What a waste. It was still thawing, so she couldn't check the snow for trails, since most of it was gone anyway. No need. The man had said he'd be there, so he'd be there.

Her thoughts briefly strayed to Solitude. She wondered what the guardchief would say when he saw her and Kunod's letters of resignation on his desk. Three squad chiefs out of six, gone. One dead, two off to join the Dawnguard.

There would be a lot of room for promotions at least.

She pushed the image of Gethor, drained as if by an enormous spider, out of her head and walked on, not intimidated by the long drop beside the path. Maybe a mouth-breathing Redguard would stumble off the path and be swallowed by the gaping crevices, but not Roë. She made good progress despite her fever, coming around the mountain in record time. Again she wondered if Durak hadn't been wrong about her fever, because come on, it was a huge coincidence that she got ill right after being attacked by vampires, but there was no point worrying about it. He'd said it wasn't sanguinare, and he probably knew what he was talking about.

Tucked away between two jutting spikes of rock was a cave mouth. That was probably it, then. Dimhollow Crypt. She unsheathed her sword and took the crossbow she'd been given before leaving Fort Dawnguard in her other hand, listening if she could hear anything inside the cave. Her keen Bosmer ears didn't let her down. Voices, two of them. Maybe Tolan had brought a friend, but somehow she doubted it. She quietly crept inside, swallowed by the darkness.

Torches flickered into a large opening at the end of the passage, and hidden behind a stalagmite, she saw two figures standing in the dim torchlight. Another figure lay prone, and Roë immediately recognized the robes.

Damn it, they'd gotten to him first.

"The Vigilant put up a fight," one of the men said to the other, his voice slightly nervous. "Jeron and Bresoth were no match for him."

"They don't seem to know when to give up," the other said, much calmer. "And now they're dead. Now be quiet, all this talk is making me hungry. We better get another one of those hardhead Vigilants wandering in soon."

They were vampires alright. Roë inaudibly shifted her balance to her other leg.

"I hope we find what we're looking for quickly. And I think we should report to Lord Harkon instead of – "

The other's voice took on a threatening edge. "Do you, fledgling? Do you? Perhaps I should tell Lokil of your disloyalty?"

Who in the blazes were Harkon and Lokil? Probably vampire high-ups, Roë made a mental note of the names.

"No, no," the fledgling quickly protested. "I was just saying – "

"Be quiet."

The fledgling followed his master's order and shut up. Roë waited for the moment when they were both looking in another direction, and then brought her crossbow to bear between two stalagmites, taking careful aim at the more confident vampire. Ignoring the shakes of her fever, she centred the iron sights on his heart and pulled the lever.

With a loud _clack_, the crossbow let fly, the bolt catching the vampire dead centre in the chest, impaling his heart. He staggered back several steps, then slumped down against the cave wall.

The fledgling was flat-footed by his master's slaying, and Roë took advantage of the moment to leap out from her hiding place and drop her crossbow, leaping towards him in four quick bounds, bringing the tip of her shortsword down into his chest. She felt the ribs crunch as her blade plunged into his ribcage, snapping the sternum and punching through the heart it protected. The fledgling clawed at the blade, his jaw wide open in a silent scream, the fangs clearly visible. Roë let out a grunt as she gave the blade a last push, severing the vampire's spinal column and finishing him off. He fell to the ground without a sound.

Tolan was dead, not drained like Gethor had been, but felled by a hard blow to the head, which had caved in his skull. Like the vampires had said, he'd put up a fight. As painful as his death might have been, it would be nowhere near as horrible as what they'd done to Gethor, drunk off his feet and unable to fight back.

She rifled through both of the beasts' pockets, finding a gold piece or two and some kind of spell scroll. She wasn't a fan of spell scrolls, so she just stuffed it in her bag to sell later.

But then her eye fell on her own arm. Oh crap.

The fledgling hadn't just clawed at her blade. On her forearm, she saw two red welts making a double crescent. They weren't particularly deep, but they were ragged and doubtless full of filth. Now her fever didn't matter anymore. If a vampire clawed you, you needed to get your ass to a temple or a healer as soon as possible. But, she recalled Isran telling her, you usually had a day or two before the rather easily curable sanguinare turned into full-blown vampirism. Dawnstar wasn't too far off, if she didn't linger here, she could be there within twenty-four hours. Plenty of time.

She picked up her crossbow and slung it on her back. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about.

She quietly opened the door the two vampires had been guarding, sneaking inside. She wasn't all that good at sneaking, at least for a Bosmer, but by Wood Elf standards, 'not very good at sneaking' was still quiet as a mouse to other races.

"Now, _brother_ Adalvald," a cruel voice rang out below the ledge she found herself on. She sneaked forward and looked down to see a vampire in antiquated noble garb stand over a man in the same dress as Tolan, trying to get to his feet. "I'm listening?"

The fallen Vigilant spat out a wad of blood. He'd been severely injured, looking tortured even, his nose broken and several teeth knocked out, his fingers looking like crumpled sausages even as he tried to support himself on them.

"I will tell you nothing, Lokil. My oath to Stendarr is more powerful than all the pain you can inflict on me."

The vampire standing over the Vigilant crossed his arms and said, "I believe you, Vigilant. And I don't think you could tell me even if you were inclined to." He leaned in, bringing his face closer to his victim's. "I don't think you even _know_ what you've found here."

Before Roë could react, the vampire brought his fist down in a terrible punch, snapping Adalvald's neck with superhuman strength and sending him to the ground, this time for good. With a snarl, Roë came to her feet and leapt down to the cave floor below, landing in front of the vampire called Lokil.

But this one wasn't as easily surprised as the others had been, side-stepping her downward slash and parrying the next blow with his arm, oblivious to the fact that it bit deep into the skin of his forearm. Roë kicked out, pushing the vampire away with her foot and bringing her blade to bear again, going straight for his heart in an explosive forward thrust.

Again the vampire dodged the attack, and with a quick movement, he threw his weight against Roë, shoulder-tackling her into the wall. Roë's teeth clacked together as her back smacked against the cave wall, but she was able to roll out of the way as the vampire's fist pistoned out at her to pound her face into mush. The blow went straight into the cave wall, its sheer force sending chips of stone flying away.

Prone, Roë saw her opening and she thrust upward, the tip of her blade sliding up into the creature's abdomen, through his diaphragm and inside his ribcage, impaling him on the spear made by her sword and her arms. Lokil snarled and flailed his arms, but she'd got him in the heart, and all he had left in him were his death throes.

He fell forward, and Roë let him fall to her side, pulling her shortsword out of his body. So much for Isran thinking this place wasn't important. Whoever this Lokil character had been, he seemed to have quite a bit of clout. Well. To have _had_ quite a bit of clout. He was dead now. Just like everyone else apart from her. She tore Lokil's cloak off his body and used it to cover Adalvald's upper body and face. Wasn't much more she could do in this cave.

But what had they found? Roë looked around the cave and saw another passage, heading deeper inside. Maybe whatever it was the Vigilant had found was in there. Had to be. This room of the cave was empty apart from two dead bodies and a few oversized mushrooms. If there had been other vampires here, they surely would have been drawn to the ruckus, but still, it never hurt to be safe. She loaded a new bolt in her crossbow, something she should have done straight away, but she wasn't used to having one at her side yet, and sneaked through the cave mouth into the next room.

This place was far bigger than the ones before, with a dome as high as six or seven men, and in the middle a ring of columns that supported stone arches, some of which had already fallen apart. The stone was a kind of purple-veined marble, and sconces burned with a strange bluish light, in a circle concentric with the pillars to form a ring of lights. In the circle formed by the pillars, the floor was white marble, with thin, shallow purple trenches pulled in it, forming some kind of pattern. All the sconces were lit, and they seemed to have been moved along those trenches, judging from the scrape marks and the prints in the dust. Had the vampires and Vigilants been fighting over this cave just to see who got to rearrange the furniture?

In the middle of the circle stood a stone pedestal, about half a man high, made of the same strange purplish marble, with a kind of stone mushroom head on top. Roë carefully approached it, on her guard for whatever kind of trap the thing might have on it. Her boots ticked quietly on the marble as she came closer. She didn't sense any traps, but that didn't mean there weren't any. These ancient ruins type places often still had wards in place to stop or even destroy intruders.

Most of the time, though, magical traps emitted a faint energy, that felt like very light static electricity when you held your hand close to them, as if tiny threads caressed your palm. Roë carefully held her hand over the demi-globe on top of the pedestal, but she felt no energies or disturbances. Slowly she came closer and closer until her hand almost touched the orb.

A _clack_ sounded and something flashed upwards and down again, pain exploding in Roë's hand. She yelped and drew back, clutching her hand, feeling warm blood run down her fingers. As she opened her hand to see the damage, she realized the thing, the spike, whatever it was, had gone all the way through, making a slit-shaped hole about three centimetres in length. What kind of trap was this? Poison? Doubtful, since any poison would have lost its potency after so long, and people clever enough to trap their secret places would know that. What then? Just a means to scare potential thieves away?

Damn it, her hand hurt. She quickly fished a bandage from her pack with her uninjured hand, and bound the wound as well as she was able. The spike hadn't severed anything, so it'd just be a painful and bothersome wound. Now she knew why explorers always used their left hand to feel for traps if they were right-handed. Still, what was the point of this? Surely any grave robber wouldn't be scared away by a stab in the palm? Still holding her throbbing hand, she looked at the pedestal and saw a drop of her blood slowly trickle downwards until it had shed so much of its mass in its trail that it simply ceased to be subject to gravity's pull.

The ground shook, only a single little bump. "Whoa," Roë heard herself breathe as she staggered backward. There was another tremor, followed by a series of metallic bangs below the marble she was standing on. Then came the sound of stone grating on stone, and as she looked on, wide-eyed, the pedestal rose up from the ground, pushed upwards by a thick stone cylinder, higher than Roë's head. She let go of her punctured hand and used it to grab the hilt of her shortsword, painful as it was to hold it. With her left hand, she kept her crossbow aimed at the cylinder.

Wait, it wasn't really a cylinder, it was more shaped as a container... no, not a container either. As an upright sarcophagus. Was this a burial place then? Maybe an ancient noble or hero buried with an artefact that the vampires wanted... or they didn't want the Vigilants to have? Or vice versa?

Roë swallowed, her left shoulder starting to tremble from the effort of holding the crossbow up, but she didn't lower it. There was no telling what kind of things could come from a sarcophagus. She'd heard of the ancient Nord dead guarding their ruins as so-called Draugr. It was all rumours and she'd never seen them for herself, but better to be careful in a place like this. Though, did a crossbow really work against a walking dead? It wasn't like with Vampires, those could be destroyed with a heartshot because... well, probably because their heart still pumped blood, even though they were dead? She'd have to ask Isran about that when she got back to Fort Dawnguard.

There was a loud grating of stone on stone and slowly, the door of the sarcophagus swung open.

Roë gripped the handle of her crossbow tightly, even as her shoulder muscle burned, and clenched her injured hand around the grip of her sword. This time she didn't feel the pain.

What was in the sarcophagus was not a decayed long-dead body, and not a walking corpse either. The body that was entombed inside didn't look like it was long dead. In fact, it looked completely untouched by decay, or even discolouration. They must have just stuck her in there not long before Roë arrived. But who? The Vigilants? Doubtful. The vampires? Also not very likely.

The dead body slowly began falling forward, and on an impulse, Roë dropped her weapons and stepped forward, catching the body as it fell.

The eyes moved behind their closed eyelids.

With a yelp, Roë jumped backward and let the body drop onto the marble. It came down without much grace, flopping down on the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Frostfire, they'd buried her alive!

"Are you... are you alright?" Roë heard herself stammer. Oh cack, she'd dropped the poor thing. She knelt by her to see if she could help. "Hey, are you hurt?"

The woman let out a groan and turned her face to Roë. She was beautiful, there was no other word for it. Her features were delicate and noble-looking, her skin smooth and immaculate, and light as white polished marble. Her brown hair was braided and tied back on top, and flowing free down the lower part of her head. Even with her eyes closed and looking half asleep, she was clearly breathtaking.

Trickling down her forehead, past her nose, over her upper lip and into her mouth, was a single gleaming, thin, fresh streak of blood.

She opened her eyes and Roë got a good look at them. What she saw made her recoil in alarm. The sclera of her eyes were black obsidian, and her irises were bright red coals.

She sprang upright and pointed her crossbow at the woman-thing's face. "Don't move!" She'd seen how strange Vampires' eyes could be, but these looked like terrible, amplified versions of them. If she was a Vampire, she was probably very powerful. Or very ill. Or very mutated. Or very cast out.

Gah, it was pointless trying to make sense of it, every guess was as good and as bad as the other. All she could do was hold her crossbow steady and hope she hadn't made a deadly mistake by not pulling the lever.

The fallen woman-thing wearily flapped her hand at Roë. "Put that thing down, sweetheart, I'm not gonna eat you."

Well, it spoke, at least. Speaking was always better than clawing or biting. But maybe she was simply out of strength and waiting for Roë to drop her guard. "Who are you?"

The presumed vampire let her hand slap back down on the marble in tired resignation to Roë's crossbow and pushed herself up so she sat upright on her backside. Roë felt herself twitch with every of her movements, expecting her to snarl and lunge, but she didn't. "So. What year is it?" she asked casually.

"Uh... two hundred and one of the fourth era."

Her eyes of terrible beauty went wide in surprise. "Fourth era?"

"Uh... yeah."

She looked like Roë had spoken to her in Akaviri. "So was there a first and a second and a third era?"

"Well... yeah." What in Oblivion was going on here? She shifted her crossbow to the other hand, but the woman-thing didn't seem to notice or care.

She still sat there on her behind, looking puzzled. "Wow."

"Who _are_ you?" Roë commanded again.

The woman-thing looked up at her. "Oh. You mean, you released me and you don't know who I am?"

"_Obviously_," Roë snapped, her nerves still taut.

"Right." Roë's hand gripped the wooden handle of the crossbow even more tightly. The whole relaxed aloofness could be just an act, meaning for her to drop her guard. "No wonder you dropped me on the head."

"Sorry 'bout that." But not really.

She rubbed the back of her head, still sitting on her rear, with her elbows on her knees. "Not really a proper way to treat a lady, is it?"

Roë pushed the crossbow a little closer to her. "I am _not_ going to ask again."

"Ask what again?"

"Who _are_ you?"

The woman-thing let out a little laugh, that sounded clear as spring water. "I thought you weren't gonna ask again?"

"Answer me, damn it."

The red-eyed woman cocked her head at Roë, her face intrigued. Either she considered it all pretty amusing, or she was intent on keeping up her act. "Name's Serana, dear. Now can you please put the crossbow down? It's not really something you need for a civilised conversation."

Roë hesitated.

"Come on, stop being silly. I said I wasn't gonna eat you." She had a peculiar way of speaking, abbreviating 'going to' to 'gonna'. Roë had never heard it being done before.

"You're not going to try anything, are you?" Roë asked, even though she knew the question itself was completely and utterly stupid.

"I'm hungry enough to gobble you down whole," she said, "but no. It's kinda improper to eat your liberators, isn't it?"

"You... eat people?"

She laughed. "It's a figure of speech, dear. No, I usually settle for a few mouthfuls of blood. It's a rather unpleasant affair, but it's either that or starving." When she saw Roë's crossbow going up again, she reassured, "I already said I wasn't gonna eat you, didn't I?" She elegantly let the tip of her tongue brush past her upper lip, over the thin streak of blood that had run down next to her nose. "Even though you taste real nice, it has to be said."

"But you are a Vampire?"

"Well... yeah. Obviously. Don't worry, we're not all mindless savages. Some of us are actually capable of friendly conversation, imagine that."

Roë took a breath and, even though she knew it might be the last mistake of her life, lowered the crossbow.

"There we go." She extended her hand. "Care to help a lady to her feet?"

She was pushing it now. "No funny business, okay?"

"Don't worry, I don't have enough of a crowd to start being funny."

Roë swallowed and took the woman-thing's cold, pale hand. She realized she'd never actually touched a Vampire before. Skin-to-skin, at least. She felt surprisingly normal, if ice cold. The cold fingers gently but firmly wrapped around her hand and Roë pulled the woman to her feet.

"Phew. This is a little more dignified, isn't it?"

"I suppose."

The Vampire swept the dust off her clothes even though there wasn't any on them. It was a peculiar ensemble she was wearing, somewhat anachronistic. Tall, elegant boots and a bodice with corset included, modest cleavage that looked feminine without being crass, and a short cape draped over her shoulders. The entire outfit looked made of soft burgundy leather, at least, as far as Roë could see in the yellow flickering of the sconces around her. Slung on her back, she had a long, thin white cylinder. "So, I showed you mine, you show me yours."

"Mm, what?" Roë was still nervous, ready to reach for her shortsword the second the Vampire tried anything.

"You know my name. What's yours?"

"Oh. Right." She supposed there was no harm in telling her. "It's Roë."

"Huh. Kinda fits you, I suppose."

What was that supposed to mean?

"So. What time of day is it?"

"Around dusk, I think."

"Mm. Convenient." The Vampire looked around the cave room. "Any idea how to get out of here? Come to think of it, I don't even know where 'here' is."

A fever-shake went through Roë. "This is Dimhollow Crypt, in Skyrim. About a day's walk from Dawnstar."

"Skyrim... oh yeah, up North. I have no idea what Dawnstar is though. City, I assume?"

"Uh... more like a village. But yes."

She looked around the cave one more time. "Hey look, I need to find my father. Being weak as a kitten, I probably wouldn't be able to make the journey alone. Would you mind coming with me?"

The very question was ridiculous. If she didn't know there were four eras, that meant she was insanely old. There was no chance her father would still be alive.

Serana seemed to have picked up on it. "Don't worry. He won't die of old age. He's a Vampire, like me. Well, not _quite_ like me."

"Still. I have no idea how many years it's been since you were uh... sealed away, I suppose, but I'm guessing a _lot_. So your father – "

She smiled. "Don't worry. He isn't just any old Vampire. He'll still be around."

Maybe, maybe not. But she was here on behalf of the Dawnguard, and she would bring whatever she found – or whoever she found – to them first. They were Vampire killers, true, but they'd doubtless see that this one was peaceful. Who knew, maybe they could learn stuff from her. Surely they wouldn't be so fanatical as to refuse even talking to her? Still, telling her she was being brought back to a fort full of Vampire killers might make her slightly uncooperative, so Roë simply said, "Sure, but I need to make a stop first, report to the people who sent me."

"Oh. That far from here?"

"Not really. Day or two."

She shrugged. "After all these years, I'm sure a day or two won't matter."

Oh cack, she'd forgotten about something. "We uh... need to make a beeline for Dawnstar first, though."

"Sure. One more day won't matter either. What are we doing there?"

Without words, Roë showed her the claw marks on her forearm.

"I see. Would it be terribly inappropriate right now to tell you that being a Vampire isn't all that bad?" Surprisingly, there was no gloating or cruelty in her voice. She was simply asking the question.

"How can it not be that bad?"

She shrugged again. "It's what you make of it. You can be all sulky and pity yourself for being no longer a creature of the light," she gestured overdramatically, "or you can see the good in it, and adapt. It's really not that bad if you can deal with it the right way."

"Yeah, um, I still don't feel like becoming a Vampire, thanks."

"Your choice. But if you've caught porphyric haemophilia, I suggest we don't waste any time."

Wait, what did she say? "Porfi-_what_?"

Serana looked puzzled at the question. "Porphyric haemophilia, the disease that causes vampirism?"

"I thought that was called sanguinare vampiris?"

She made a face. "'Sanguinare vampiris'? What kinda stupid name is that. Anyway, doesn't matter." She reached out and grabbed Roë's arm, pulling it towards her with her cold, dead fingers. She looked intently at the wound, and spoke the words Roë dreaded to hear. "See the pale tendrils emanating from the wound? You've caught it alright. If you'd rather not become one of us, we should get going." She let go of Roë's arm, somewhat reluctantly. It must be strange to have dead fingers and lay them on a body warm with life.

"I uh... I was told you usually have around a day or two until the disease progresses to an untreatable stage."

"It depends."

Roë's heart beat harder in her chest. "On?"

Serana was still rather casual about the whole thing. "On who infected you, on your susceptibility to disease, things like that."

"Then... we need to get moving, right?"

She nodded.

It was twilight when they emerged from Dimhollow Crypt, and a cold wind had started blowing from the North. That meant colder weather and possibly snow, even in spring. It didn't matter. The snow wouldn't be here before tomorrow, so it wouldn't slow their progress to Dawnstar. Roë hoped to the Nine that there was a healer there. Sanguinare was supposedly a very easy disease to cure in its early stages, but that didn't make any difference if there was no one there that could brew a simple potion or cast a single Restoration spell. But this kind of thinking didn't help anyone. Even in this season, the road to Dawnstar was treacherous and slow-going, sometimes even snowed in.

"Which way?"

"Mm?"

"Which way?" Serana asked again. "To this Dawnstar place."

Roë unrolled her map with shaking fingers. Damn it, this fever was going to make everything worse. "It's uh... this path down the mountain again, and then Northeast."

"Alright, I'll follow you. Think we can get there by morning?"

"We better."

"Don't mind if I share that sentiment."

They began walking, taking the path down the mountain. Going was slower than Roë hoped, mostly because Serana looked completely and utterly exhausted and weakened. You'd be worn out for less. Because if she hadn't even heard of the division between eras, she must be – Roë quickly did the math in her head – over two thousand years old. It could be an act, but she doubted it. What would the point be, after all?

They'd reached the foot of the mountain. "It's Northeast now, across the plateau. Terrain should get easier in a bit. The weather, not so much."

"Ah yes. That beautiful Skyrim weather I've always heard so much about."

"Yeah. _That_ beautiful Skyrim weather. Think you'll make it that far?" _And fast enough?_

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine," she said fiercely. "Starving though."

"So long as you don't try anything on me," Roë told her.

She looked amused. "I already said it'd be really rude of me to feed from the one who freed me, didn't I?"

"As if manners would stop you if you're hungry enough."

"Ah, see," she said, wagging her finger, "that's the prejudices you should get over, if you don't mind my saying so." This whole thing still seemed to amuse her. Roë supposed that seeing the humour in everything came with the territory when you were crazy old and didn't have too many worries apart from catching an unexpected crossbow bolt to the heart. "Just because we drink blood, doesn't mean we can't be civilised about it."

"Tell that to the bastards who killed my friend and tried to drain me. They were more animal than man."

She put her hands in her sides. "Ah yes. Not all of us are well-mannered. From what I can remember before I was locked away, there was a disturbing increase in brutes."

"Brutes?"

"Yeah, the beastly types you described. My father would say they are defective pigs who have forgotten the nobility of their bloodline and act like savages."

It was a discussion best left alone for now, because Roë was worried that if she told Serana about the Dawnguard, she'd balk at coming back with her – and the Dawnguard would want to see her, she was pretty certain of that. Imagine the things they could learn from her. Vampires in themselves were mysterious enough, so mysterious in fact that most people doubted they even existed, so finding one they could talk with and ask questions to would be invaluable. If all the vampires had been like her, Roë suspected there wouldn't have been any need for a Dawnguard in the first place. Who knows, this woman, or woman-thing, or whatever she was, might be instrumental in finding a way to get the Vampires off everyone's backs.

As they walked on, the clouds opened up and showed a starry sky. Some people said they could make out the signs that were on some of the doomstones by looking at the stars, but Roë wasn't that interested in astronomy. Especially now.

And yet, there was something in the night sky. The stars seemed to shift and multiply and change colour until they formed the face of a young woman, of pale skin, with light brown hair and a wreath of white wildflowers in her hair. In her mind, a sibilant female voice spoke words she couldn't understand, and then a single blood red tear leaked from the face's eye.

"Roë?"

The vision was gone and the stars were once again uncaring white lights in the dark sky.

"Roë?"

"Mm? What?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

Her mouth completely dry, Roë asked, "Serana?"

"Mm?"

"When you... They told me you had dreams when sanguinare got bad. Like, sinister ones. Did you ever have dreams before you... turned?"

Serana's face suddenly hardened and she looked away. "No, Roë. I didn't have dreams."

She didn't? Then maybe Durak and Isran had been talking nonsense when they'd said the dreams were the best way to identify sanguinare vampiris. "Maybe... maybe it's nothing." It could have been hallucinations due to the fever. Or just the tension from the spelunking and vampire-killing. Or just her imagination.

"You sure you're alright?" Serana asked, looking genuinely worried.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, let's move on."

She wasn't fine though. Her legs felt like whitecap stalks and her head felt stuffed full of sack cloth. She kept putting one foot in front of the other, but if this fever got worse, no way she'd make it to Dawnstar in time.

No. That wasn't an option. She _had_ to make it to Dawnstar in time.

Setting her jaw, she walked on, trying to ignore the dizziness and numbness even as her feet slipped on the sleet that had formed during the hours they'd been walking. Serana had been asking questions mostly, about the state of affairs in the world as it was now. Roë had answered, but her answers had gotten shorter and shorter as the fever got worse. If she'd been feeling healthy, she'd have tons of questions, but right now, she simply couldn't muster up the strength to be inquisitive.

Serana seemed to understand, slowing her barrage of questions. She probably thought Roë was getting tired – she was – so they'd fallen silent in the last hour. The fever had gotten worse, chills that made cold sweat break from her pores and disorientation that made it extremely difficult to keep her footing. She was in a really bad way, but she had to keep moving at any cost. Resting would be risky. Too risky.

She stumbled and her limbs no longer responded, sending her crashing to the ground in the snow. Her breath, which had slowed during the last hours, suddenly picked up and she fell into a panting fit, gasping for breath as Serana knelt by her to support her head. "Help... help me up, I... I need to get to Dawnstar."

The young woman's face with the flower wreath flashed by her vision again. This time both her eyes wept blood.

"Easy, Roë," Serana said, brushing the hair away from her face. "Take a breather, we've been walking for hours."

"I think... I think it's not... that big a deal. But I need to... get to Dawnstar."

"You can't reach Dawnstar if you're like this. You need to take a moment to rest, maybe it'll get better if you catch your breath." Whatever this was, rest wouldn't solve it, she was sure of that. She felt herself going from bad to worse, her chest constricting and her bowels cramping. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. But she _had_ to reach Dawnstar.

"It probably just... my fever."

Serana's face froze. "You have a fever?"

"Yeah, but it's... not... not bad. Just need... to rest. In Dawnstar."

"Roë. If you have a fever on top of porphyric haemophilia, then..."

Oh no. Roë's insides contracted even harder. No, this couldn't be true. "Wh... what?"

"Porphyric haemophilia spreads much, much faster when other illnesses are already present. Then both diseases, they... fortify each other."

No, no, no, _no_! "No, Serana, no!" She tried to get up, but all her strength had left her and she could only struggle in Serana's cold arms. "Serena. I need to get to Dawnstar. There may still be time, I – "

"You can't walk like this, Roë."

This couldn't be happening. "Serana, Dawnstar's only an hour or two away. It's just tiredness and hallucinations from the fever. We can make it, I – "

"What kind of hallucinations did you have, Roë?"

"Nothing, just... it was the fever, not – "

"What kind?"

"Some lady w... with..."

"White flowers in her hair?" Serana asked urgently.

Oh, no, she knew.

"How many times did you see her?"

"It was just... just the fever, I – "

Serana gave Roë a shake. "How many times?"

"... Twice."

"Roë." Serana hesitated for a moment, then said, "You said you didn't want to be a Vampire, but... I'm afraid the choice has been made for you."

"No, Serana, I can still walk. I can make it, I can – "

"Roë. We need to get you out of the wind and the snow. I can't carry you, I can barely walk myself."

"Wh... why get me out of the wind and snow?"

Serana said solemnly, but without any emotion, "So you can spend the last minutes of your life out of the cold."

"Serana, Ser... ana don't... don't talk like that. Don't talk like that, I can... I have to..."

Serana only smiled. "It's okay, Roë. I told you, it's not so bad."

"Yes it is. Yes it is, please I need to..."

"Look at me."

Roë managed to keep her gaze still long enough to look in Serana's black-and-red-eyes. They were terrifying and beautiful. "Do I look unhappy?"

"N-no, but – "

"It's what you make of it. That's what I said."

Tears blurred Roë's vision. "No, I don't want this."

"It's no longer about wanting. Come on, let's get you out of the wind." Serana stopped supporting her, gently lowering her head to the cold snow-covered rock, then rose and grabbed the shoulders of Roë's leather armour, pulling her in slow and laboured jerks towards a rocky overhang, sheltered from the wind. Sweat was pouring down her face now, and when Serana sat back down next to her, supporting her head, she said, "Water, pl... please. In m-my bag."

She heard the noise of her bag being turned over and a canteen being unstoppered. She felt the cold smoothness of glass on her lips and cool water poured into her mouth. She swallowed greedily, but the bottle was taken off her lips far too soon.

"Wouldn't want you to choke. Much nastier way of dying than porphyric haemophilia."

"How... how do you die from it?" Roë asked, feeling her body growing cold. She felt thin and breakable, and her skin felt as if it was stretched over her bones, in her face especially. Her eyes stung and it was difficult to keep them open.

"Usually in your sleep," Serana said gently. "If you're awake, you just slowly fall asleep. It's mostly painless, I've been told."

"This wasn't... how I thought it would go."

"It never is. But believe me, it's not that bad. It all depends on how you deal with it."

As she felt her pulse slowing and her mind going woozy, she finally accepted what was about to happen. She simply didn't have the will to fight it anymore. "This is... just stupid. Ending up dying... in a Vampire's arms."

Serana smiled. "Well, that Vampire's going to be someone of your species in a few hours."

"Will you... stay with me... until I'm..."

"Dead?" Serana asked, unsurprisingly detached from the whole thing. "Yeah, don't worry. It'll take a few hours until you're... up and about, so to speak, so I'm gonna try and find a light snack in the meantime. Don't worry, no one will find you."

Roë felt sleepy.

"Close your eyes now, and I'll see you in a few hours, alright?"

She didn't want to close her eyes, she wanted to fight, to struggle, to live, but her eyelids were inexorably pulled closed until all she perceived was Serana's hand holding hers, no longer cold compared to hers, and then that too faded.

She fell asleep and died.


	16. Falnas: Loud and Clear

**.**

**FALNAS**

**Loud and Clear**

**City of Riften, the Cistern**

"Well, the other two deadbeats came through," Brynjolf said to Falnas as they stood in the dark of the Ratway. "Nice work, ashface, didn't think you had it in you."

Falnas permitted himself a grin. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Don't take it personally," the man said back. "We've had so many hopefuls bungling simple jobs lately that I've gotten a bit sceptical."

"Well, I'm not here to bungle."

"Indeed. Come on, let me introduce you to Mercer, and we can get you initiated."

Finally. After being rebuked time and again by the only guild member he knew, the iceberg known as Sapphire, he was in! And once you were in the Guild, you were in the money. He'd doubted himself at times, wondered if he'd ever get invited and accepted, but now it was finally the time. Let the good times roll.

He followed Brynjolf through the Ratway, and then through the large open space where he'd met his new employers for the first time. The other man was waiting at the door, the man with the shaven head and Breton accent. Mallory.

"So. 'E dun' good?"

"He has," Brynjolf said. "Mercer in?"

The Breton chuckled. "Mercer's always in."

"Yeah, he is, isn't he," Brynjolf chuckled back. "Come on, newbie."

Falnas followed as Brynjolf unlocked the door to the Thieves' Guild headquarters. "Always stick your key in the crack between the door boards," Brynjolf explained. "Never in the actual lock unless you're anxious to know what your own broiled flesh smells like."

"Noted." No, that wasn't something he was curious about.

A click and the Thieves' Guild headquarters was open, and Falnas was led inside.

It was a room like the one they'd just stood in, a large circular platform in the middle with moderately foul-smelling water running around it in broad canals, but this place was actually furnished and made habitable. Torches hung on the walls, spreading a low but comfortable light. The canals carved the floor into platforms, four on the edge of the dome, and they'd been fitted for various purposes. One had beds on it, the other training dummies and chests. One of the four platforms had been expanded with shoddy wooden carpentry, and that one held barrels and sacks of food, a few tables and chairs, and even a bar.

The other thing that was very tavern-like was the signboard hanging from a pole in the wall, depicting a foaming mug of beer, and with the subscript, "The Ragged Flagon."

They had made themselves a cosy, if not terrific-smelling home here.

"C'mon in lad," the Breton said, tapping him on the shoulder. "We just need to get you vetted by Mercer."

As they walked through the Ragged Flagon, they passed by Sapphire, who gave Falnas a badly-acted look of dismissal.

On the walked, and a blonde woman with a narrow, waspish looking face shot them a look of barely repressed fury. Falnas was about to feel really, really unwelcome here, before he realized that the look wasn't aimed at him at all, but rather at his shaven companion.

"What'd you do this time, Delvin?"

"Uh... I'll explain later, yeah?"

Brynjolf chuckled behind Falnas. "Did you get caught again?"

"Listen mate, 'ow 'm I s'posed to know she's in there at that particular hour?"

Falnas had no idea what it was about.

"Alright, Falnas," Brynjolf said. "You're about to meet the head of the Guild. I assume you know how to conduct yourself respectfully?"

"Of course," Falnas said. "I'm the picture of courtesy." Mallory, meanwhile, had sat down at a table with a flagon of ale.

"Good. Because I'm your sponsor in this, anything stupid you do reflects on me. Mercer, here's the new guy."

The man they'd addressed stood behind a counter, but it wasn't the bar – that was against the wall a ways to the right. This looked more like a shop counter, the man behind it tall and angry-looking, with unkempt red-brown hair and a horseshoe moustache of the same colour. Falnas immediately got an untrustworthy impression from him, but then again, these were thieves, and they weren't supposed to be moral paragons.

"Huh, you're the new recruit, huh?" the man asked, his voice rough and sharp, clearly used to carrying authority. "Welcome to the Guild. You dick us over, and you'll end up without a single copper to scratch your arse with, but play by the rules, and you get very, very rich."

"Odd," Falnas remarked, "that there are rules in a place called the Thieves' Guild."

This man did not like being talked back to, that was instantly clear when he leaned forward and growled, "Since you're new, I'll let that comment slide. But let me make one thing very clear to you: you do what we say, when we say, or the only way you'll ever make a copper is by begging. That clear?"

Falnas knew when to back off and defer to the people who had the authority. "Of course, I was just wondering."

The man was somewhat satisfied, standing upright again, though the suspicion in his eyes remained. "Well, don't. Don't try to be smart, that's my job. Brynjolf your sponsor?"

"That's right."

"Good. Learn all you can from him. There's probably a job lined up for you already, so get to it."

Hm, this one wasn't much for wasting time. Or having a conversation. "Understood."

"C'mon newbie," Brynjolf said, "I've got a job for you indeed. Just one more introduction and then you can start with the money making."

The guild leader didn't even say goodbye and went right back to his ledger.

"He'll warm up to you," Brynjolf said, "after you've done a few big-money jobs, don't worry. Now, the last person I want you to meet", he went on, leading Falnas back to the bar platform, in the gloom of the flickering torches, "will be your biggest source of cash. You'll get paid by the Guild for doing jobs, but that's not where most of your money will come from. We encourage opportunism during jobs." The wooden platform creaked as they walked on it, to a young Redguard woman sitting in the shadows. "Meet Tonilia. No matter what you've stolen or where you've stolen it from, Tonilia can find a buyer for it."

"Ah," Falnas said, "the resident fence. I was always told that stealing is easy, it's actually selling the stuff that's the challenge."

"Truer words," Brynjolf agreed. "And Tonilia is nothing short of a miracle worker. Tonilia, meet Falnas, our newest."

The woman stood up and greeted him. She was shy, but had a strange sinister aura about her. "Welcome to the Guild. I'm looking forward to a prosperous and lucrative relationship."

"As am I," Falnas said back. "Whatever I can carry on my back, it's yours." He meant it. Being able to fence goods was a luxury he'd never had, and he intended to use it fully now.

"Now then," Brynjolf said. "We'll drink to your admission when you get back, but right now, you've got a job to do."

Brynjolf explained the details, the operation being part of one of Maven Black-briars bids to stamp out the mead competition, and then led Falnas to a small niche in the wall. Barely perceptible, was a ladder leading upward.

"You won't have to go through the Ratway anymore. From now on, you can enter and leave through here." He held out a strange, flat key. "Your copy."

Falnas took and pocketed it, then watched as Brynjolf ascended the ladder. There was a clicking sound and a mechanism made the stone at the top of the ladder grate out of the way, opening the way up. Falnas followed Brynjolf in climbing the ladder, and found himself in a small mausoleum in the Riften graveyard.

"Ah-_ha_," Falnas realized. "So that's how you get around so quickly."

"Indeed. I have to warn you though, it's not Thieves' Guild policy to kill anyone, but if you blab about this secret entrance, there's a good chance you'll get yourself a nice little space right here too."

Falnas grinned. "I didn't join this club just to blab about it. I've known Sapphire for a while now, knew she was a member too, and she knows I'm good for it."

"Yeah, she... spoke of you," Brynjolf said with an unreadable face. That could mean a lot of things. Falnas resisted the urge to get into it.

"So then, to Goldenglow Estate I go?"

Brynjolf nodded. "Listen. I know Maven is nuts. But she's got a lot of connections and I have a good feeling about her having a line on some good jobs down the line. Remember, you're there to bloody their nose, not drop bodies. No killing."

"If I wanted to kill," Falnas said, "I would have joined those maniacs at the Dark Brotherhood."

"Good. Now then, off with you."

Falnas began walking, off to Goldenglow Estate. His first real job for the Guild. If he did this right, it meant big money. The job itself didn't appear so complicated, of course, they never did before you were actually in the thick of it. Three beehives to burn, and a safe to raid. The safe might pose a problem, but the beehives would be a cakewalk. Just approach them and set them on fire, hopefully not suffering too many beestings in the process. Falnas felt a bit bad for the poor bees, but they were only bugs after all. Destroying the beehives would cripple Goldenglow's honey production, which in turn would make it impossible for them to brew mead. It was supposed to be a powerful message for Aringoth, Goldenglow's owner. He'd decided to try and make his own fortune instead of paying Maven off on a monthly basis. He'd even hired guards, and one of the Guild, the narrow-faced blonde, had almost gotten herself killed trying to break in. Maven had, predictably, not taken very kindly to that.

Falnas had been explicitly told not to level the whole estate, so he'd have to be somewhat cautious with the burning. Maybe set them on fire, then make sure the workers saw so they could put it out before it did too much damage. At any rate, with the new mercenaries there, it might be a somewhat hairy job. Which was probably why they sent the newbie. Still, they'd been courteous enough to relay the blonde's information to him. She'd used the old sewer tunnel to get in, and she'd only been noticed after gaining entry, so the sewer tunnel would most likely still be open and unguarded. It was supposedly on an island in a lake some ways off. He'd been given directions, and it was those directions he was following now. Past Snowshod Farm and then to the larger of two islands just offshore. He was about to swim the distance, but when he saw a small rowing boat concealed in the reeds, he borrowed that instead.

Night was falling, and it'd be an ideal time to grant himself access to the brewery. Rule number one of burglary: night time is the right time.

Good thing he'd found the boat, because the water in Skyrim tended to be ice cold, and hypothermia was not something he felt particularly interested in. He grounded the boat and jumped off, careful not to let the water get in his boots. It wasn't hypothermia, but soggy boots were not very pleasant either.

Indeed, there was a sewer pipe that emerged from the island, its mouth dripping into the water below. It'd be perfectly feasible to lower himself into the pipe from the top so he wouldn't have to get wet. He climbed onto the pipe mouth and lowered himself, carefully letting his body hang over the water until his feet found purchase. He let go and shifted his weight so he could duck into the pipe. And that was that.

The pipe up ahead looked pitch dark. Should have brought a damn torch. Too late now.

As his nose resigned to the smell of piss and poop and his eyes adapted to the darkness, Falnas slowly crept forward, hunched over in the low pipe. Banging one's head in the darkness could be extremely dangerous and even deadly, so he held out one hand in front of him, at the height of his forehead.

What was that?

Falnas stopped and listened. Those had been paws scratching on stone alright. Damnit, he hoped it was just rats. No more sound came, except his own heart beating in his ears, and Falnas carefully crept forward.

With a shriek, a ball of disgusting wet fur smacked against him, and as Falnas clawed at it, flailing in pure reflex, he felt sharp teeth grazing the side of his throat. Falnas let out a startled cry and hooked his fingers into the thing's fur, pulling the coarse, wet, clumpy hair as hard as he could. There was a tearing sensation as the things claws tried to find purchase, but it was too small to resist Falnas' strength, and he was able to throw it to the ground. He could see next to nothing in the darkness, but what faint movement he saw was enough: he brought his boot down on the fallen animal, stomping as hard as he could. There was a sickening crunch under his foot, and another shriek sounded as his boot broke the creature's spine. Falnas lifted his foot again and made it come down hard on where he thought the head was, crushing the skeever's skull like a wet paper bag.

"Almalexia's flaccid clam, that was close," he breathed, leaning against the wall of the pipe for support. A skeever was only a nuisance in normal circumstances, but one leaping you in the dark could very well be deadly. Skeevers could leap very high, and had strong, sharp teeth that were more than capable of crushing a larynx or severing an artery. Falnas touched the side of his neck, and the wet, warm stuff on his fingers confirmed the suspicion made by the pulsating, burning pain. He was bitten alright. The bite had been stopped by his sternomastoid muscle, but the teeth had broken skin and probably damaged the muscle tissue underneath too. And given the uncleanness of skeevers, he could safely assume he'd contracted an illness or two. The tissue damage wasn't debilitating and could probably be healed at a temple, but cure disease potions were pretty expensive lately, and until he could buy one, he'd have to sweat it out. His own fault for not remembering to bring a torch.

He got his wits back together and focused on the job. He skulked forward, uncomfortably aware of his blindness and any skeever's advantage in the darkness. It took him several minutes to cover the short distance, but when he reached the end of the tunnel, he saw light coming down from cracks in the ceiling.

No, not cracks in the ceiling, he realized when he came closer, but in a hatch. Nice, he was probably right under Goldenglow Estate. He ascended the ladder and gave the hatch a push. It didn't move, naturally, being locked from the inside. A few metres further, there was a splat-splash of fresh evacuate being dumped in the sewers. It stank like the Hells, but would have stunk a lot more if he'd been under the ghastly shower at the time.

Fishing his knife from his pocket, Falnas hooked one of his elbows around the step of the ladder, and inserted the blade into the crack of the hatch. A few hard pulls and the lock snapped with a measured and controlled _tink_.

He stayed on the ladder for a few seconds, listening for a possible reaction. Nobody had heard or seen. Good.

Carefully, he pushed the hatch open and peeped through, most likely looking extremely comical while he did so. Nobody there. He'd ended up in a small storage room, full of wheats and hops and barleys. Nothing worth stealing, sadly. Deftly, he hoisted himself up through the hatch, not sorry at all to leave the stinking, dark sewers behind him. Damn skeever had got him good, he saw now, the collar and left breast of his jacket red with blood.

But no time to mourn his cheap clothes. If he did this right, he'd be able to buy something much less haggard. He didn't know the layout of the estate, but it was most likely that the brewery itself was on the lower levels, and all the rest above it. Mead had to be brewed in dark places, didn't it?

As Falnas reached for the handle of the door that led out of the storage, he heard heavy-soled boots come down behind the door. Dammit, they hadn't been kidding about the guards. Thankfully, most people usually hired Nords and Redguards for this kind of job, and they usually walked loud enough to make the lanterns flicker three storeys higher. Falnas stayed quiet and listened until the footsteps were well out of earshot, then he granted himself access to the estate. First, the safe. Brynjolf had said it was on the ground floor, so one storey up. He sneaked down the hallway, and went up the stairs, the wood only slightly creaking when he ascended.

More boots sounded and Falnas froze, but the footsteps went away from him, and after a few seconds, it was quiet again. He was on the ground floor now, quietly moving forward while looking around. One of the doors was ajar, a stripe of light coming from the opening. Most likely the office, where Aringoth was, hopefully, working the books. It'd be ideal. All he needed was the safe key, so he'd be spared the misery of working the lock. Safes usually had really complex ones, and it'd take him a while to get inside. With the key, it would only take a second.

Carefully, Falnas crept closer and peered inside. The man standing with his back to him was Altmer alright, taller and more lanky than the Nords you kept running into in Skyrim. He had a rather ludicrous haircut, a voluminous fountain of grey hair that looked like an oversized helmet. Silly Altmer.

Still, this silly Altmer probably held the key to the safe, and that was what Falnas needed. He doubted he'd give it up quietly or easily, so some violence was probably required. After quickly looking up and down the hallway to see if no one was coming, Falnas quickly slipped inside, took a candlestick from a nearby table, and raised it behind the Altmer's head. He wasn't there to kill people, something he'd always told himself he would never do unless in self defence, but busting a few heads was perfectly fine.

He brought the candlestick down on the Altmer's grey coif. It struck with a dull thud, and the Altmer's knees immediately gave out. He hadn't hit the poor bastard too hard, because it wasn't like in the books, where people constantly knocked each other out with hard blows to the head. Hitting someone hard on the head was very dangerous and could very well be fatal. This little tap of the candlestick though, was controlled and light enough to just cause severe pain and disorientation. As soon as the Altmer fell, Falnas caught him and immediately pressed his hand to his victim's mouth. No screaming.

"Hmph?! Hmmmph!"

"Quiet."

"HMMMPH!"

"_Quiet_."

He'd gotten through to the man, and he stopped trying to make noise, only breathing hard through his nose.

With his free hand, Falnas drew his dagger and pressed it against the brewer's back. "Listen here. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. When I do, you don't make a sound, or my knife is going into your lungs. You don't turn your head. I see your face, you're dead. That clear?"

The mer nodded furiously.

"Good. No screaming now." He took his hand off the Altmer's mouth, and indeed, he remained quiet.

"The key to your safe. Now."

"Wh... what?"

"The key," Fanlas repeated. "Give me the key."

"Th... the key?"

He wasn't getting through, it seemed. Some swearing might jar his brain. "Give me the fucking key, you motherfucking cocksucker," he hissed, hoping the man wouldn't be able to recognize his voice if he ever had to indicate him as suspect and he had to repeat that little line. He pushed the knife a little harder to emphasize his point.

"Alright, alright," the brewer finally breathed. In my vest pocket. On the peg over there."

"_Don't_ turn your head," Falnas threatened when he felt the mer was about to point to the clothes peg.

"Did M... did Maven send you?"

"Who?" Falnas lied. It was bad practice to blab about clients. If bitchy Maven wanted this guy to know she'd been responsible, she'd doubtless have ways of telling him that herself. "Now shut up."

Though he'd forgotten a torch, he _had_ remembered to bring some basic incapacitating gear. With his free hand, he fished the pre-tied gag from his mouth and threw it over Aringoth's head, tightening it until it made it impossible for the mer to make anything in the way of noise. Then he slipped the bag over his victim's head, tightening the strings. He told the mer to put his hands behind his back, and he tied those as well. Lastly, he tied his legs, then fixed them to his hands. He'd have a hard time getting free of that, and all the noise he'd be able to make would be banging his head on the floorboards, and that in turn would be muffled by the ugly yellow carpet. He'd hopefully be gone by the time someone found him. Still, he threatened, "I'm coming back here a few times. You move, you're dead. Got it?"

The sack nodded furiously.

"Good. Stay still and all you'll end up with tomorrow is an aching head." It was a blatant lie, but it would serve its purpose for a short time, and that was all he needed. He got to his feet, fished in the vest pocket and took out a long metallic object. That was what he needed. Now to open the safe. The key fit perfectly in the small metal box chained to the wall, under the desk. Falnas took out the bill of sale in the safe. That was what Brynjolf had told him to bring. Excellent. Now for some arson, the easy part, and he was done here.

Just as he ducked out of the doorway, however, he heard boots stomping in the hallway, and he quickly pulled back inside. Dammit. If that guard came in, he was royally butt-fucked. He quickly shot a few looks around the room and saw the solution. The window opened into a nice garden, with hedges and flowers and all that. The hedges were very interesting indeed. He quickly moved toward the window, opening the latch and peering out. If a guard saw, all he'd think was that Aringoth had opened a window.

Only one guard stood in the garden, near the front of the house, but he had his back to him. Falnas quickly flipped over the window sill and landed outside, ducking behind a hedge.

"What's going on here? Alarm!"

Damn, the guard had discovered his tied-up friend. Falnas remained where he was, quiet and unseen.

"Alarm!" the guard shouted again. "Everyone! Inside! Search the house, the thief must still be inside!"

Through a hole in the hedge, Falnas saw the one guard at the front of the house leave his post and run to the house. Praise Nocturnal, this was too perfect.

"Amiel! Cyrus! Search the basement!" the guard barked. "You two, search this floor. You, with me, we're blocking the exits. Make sure nobody gets out of the house!"

Hah, too late, silly buggers. Amusing when guards actually made the job easier with their own blundering.

"Buddy system," the guard leader ordered. "Maintain line of sight with each other at all times."

That's it, keep on shouting orders. How these people didn't realize that the more noise they made, the easier they were to evade, Falnas didn't know. Then again, simple races...

He crouch-ran to the front lawn, where the beehives were. This was a great opportunity, and he wouldn't even have to return. The simplicity of it was almost ludicrous. Snatching a lantern from a nearby hook, he ran for the first beehive. He opened the oil reservoir and let some spill on the wooden construction. A tiny twig lit on fire did the trick as soon as it was brought close enough, and a small flame appeared, hovering over the oil, quickly expanding to form first a sizeable bonfire, and then a roaring inferno. By that time, Falnas had already lit the second beehive on fire and was running for the third.

"There he is! Fire, fire!"

Shit, almost!

"He's burning the beehives, get him!"

He knew the guard was running towards him, but he didn't have to time even to look up. This hive had to burn. The twig's flame again jumped to the oil, and off it went.

Now he did dare to look up, and he saw the guard rushing towards him, his longsword drawn. The second guard appeared as well, his crossbow ready. Balls! Time to make a run for it. Before he did so, though, he threw the lantern over the last beehive, making sure it caught enough fire for them to be unable to extinguish it. Then he ran, and just as he launched himself towards the front gate, a crossbow bolt zipped past him, carrying embers from the burning beehive with it, like the fireworks his compatriots sometimes lit back in Mournhold.

"Stop! Stop right there!" the running guard barked as Falnas sprinted for dear life. Another crossbow bolt flew past him, smashing apart on the wall ten metres in front of him. Falnas ran until he reached the gate, then propelled himself upward, grabbing hold of the jutting iron spikes on top of the gate and pulling himself up. He felt a hand claw at the leg of his pants, but the fingers didn't find purchase and he was over, smacking into the ground and rolling so he could immediately break into a run.

"Get him! Get him!"

As Falnas ran, he heard the jangling of keys. Hah, of course. No way that Redguard could climb the gate with all the ironware he had wrapped around him. A last crossbow bolt flashed past him, so close Falnas felt the air displacement, but by the time the guards got the gate open, Falnas was too far for any of them to have any hope of catching him. Still, he kept running as far and as fast as he could, until he reached a small forest, where he finally allowed himself to slow to a jog, and then a walk.

This job had gone so smoothly, and Falnas realized he'd had a lot of lucky breaks.

So many, in fact, that if he was a superstitious man, he'd probably believe some higher power was protecting him.


	17. Keljarn: The Silver Hand

**.**

**Keljarn**

**The Silver Hand**

**Jorrvaskr**

"You awake, new blood?"

"I am now."

The hangover wasn't as bad as it had been the day before, but there was still a faintly throbbing sensation in the back of his head, and a cork dry feeling in his mouth, which tasted like the inside of a carriage driver's glove. There had been mead yesterday night, when they'd come back to show off the Wuuthrad fragment they'd found, and while Farkas had drunken himself into a total stupor, Keljarn had remembered to practice at least some moderation, and he was glad he had. No puddle of puke next to his bed, no head-smashing hangover, no nausea or dizziness, just a bit of a headache, a dry mouth and a lot of tiredness.

Skjor stood in the doorway, looking considerably less mocking than the day before. Keljarn only half-noticed he hadn't been called milk drinker this time. Seemed like he'd made an impression.

"Come on, there's something important we need to discuss," the man said, then added, "But not here. Come to the Underforge."

Keljarn sat on the edge of the bed, scratching his head. "The what?" he asked, but Skjor had already turned around and gone into the hallway.

It was just past dawn, probably. It was hard to tell underground, but Keljarn suspected these people didn't want him to delay. He threw on his clothes, smelly as they were, buckled his weapon belt and trudged out of his room, grinning at the monstrously heavy snoring sounds that came from Farkas' room.

No one was around in the mead hall, but the light coming through the cracks between the wood made it clear that it was, indeed, just past dawn. Damn that old geezer for waking him up so early.

A door creaked and Ria, the friendly Cyrodiilic girl trotted in, carrying a basket of bread.

"Morning, Ria," Keljarn croaked.

"Oh, good morning."

Even tired as he was, Keljarn noticed that she didn't address him by his rank, which was currently apprentice. That could mean she'd either lost her previous good manners, or it could mean something else. "Are congratulations in order?" he asked, hoping he wasn't wrong.

The girl's beaming smile told him he wasn't. "It's no big deal," the girl said, but she looked about to burst with pride.

"Yes it is," Keljarn told her, stepping toward her, taking her by the shoulders and giving her three well-deserved kisses on the cheek. "Congratulations, apprentice."

"Ooh," the girl laughed nervously, turning beet-red and looking away. "It's r-really not that special."

"Stop saying that. You can be proud of yourself. I bet Njada was angry as a bullwhipped dremora though?"

"She was... not very happy."

"If she's smart," Keljarn said, "she'll learn from it and apply herself more seriously from now on."

The girl stood a head smaller than Keljarn, but she still looked up at him and said, "She does put in a lot of effort, you know."

Keljarn shook his head. "I'm sure she does, but that's not what I meant. I've only been here for two days, but even in that short time, I've learned that the Companions value a cooperative attitude just as much as a strong arm."

"It's... not my place to judge her," Ria said, but Keljarn wouldn't have that.

"Yes it is. You're an apprentice now, she's an initiate."

The girl gave another nervous chuckle and conceded, "Well... maybe I'll tell her to go fetch some mead tonight."

Keljarn clapped her on the shoulder. "Good!" Then he asked, "Say, you have any idea where the Underforge is?"

The girl blinked in surprise. "No, but... did they invite you there?"

"Well, 'invite'..." Keljarn said. "They told me I had to be there, yes."

What little pride had shown in the girl's demeanour promptly vanished again and she returned to her humble self. "I don't know where it is, but... well... people who are called to the Underforge, they come out... different somehow. Or so I'm told."

"Hm. Different in a bad way?"

"No, no... I'd only just joined when Farkas and Vilkas went to the Underforge, two years ago, and they're still the same, just... different. I don't know how to explain it. I doubt it's bad though, since they were seen as equals by Aela and Skjor from then on."

"Huh. So I guess it's good news then."

She smiled nervously. "I hope so, yes."

Footsteps came from Jorrvaskr's lower level, and Aela emerged, dressed in simple furs, without face paint this time. Keljarn guessed it was too early for even Aela to spend time on warpaint. She looked less feral but no less breathtaking.

"Morning, Companion," Ria greeted the huntress with a humble bow.

"Morning, apprentices," Aela said to them both, though a wink at Keljarn told him Ria's hunch had been accurate and he probably wouldn't be an apprentice for long. By the Nine, he was making a career so fast even Ria would get green with envy if he didn't tone it down a notch.

"Morning, Aela. Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where the Underforge is, would you?"

She smiled mysteriously. "Of course I know. I need you for something else first, though."

"Oh?"

She flung herself down at a table. "I'll explain in a minute. Sit down you two, have a damn drink. Chomp some bread. Can't start a work day on an empty stomach."

"Truer words," Keljarn agreed, and sat down beside her.

"Ria, would you mind getting us a jug of berry juice and a basket of bread?"

Not an order this time, but a question. The girl had earned that much. With a smile, she said, "Of course, companion," and scooted off toward the kitchen.

Looking at her go, Aela nodded and said, "Knew it was a good idea to make her apprentice."

"Humbly in agreement, yes," Keljarn said to that. "Always a good sign when people get promoted and don't change a bit."

"Exactly. So," Aela said. "While Ria is gone..."

"Mm?"

"You retrieved a fragment of Wuuthrad. That's no small feat."

Keljarn began to laugh it off and said, "Well, Farkas did all the w – "

"Farkas spoke very highly of your contribution," Aela interrupted him gently. "I know this might seem a little strange to you, but we've talked it through and we feel you're ready to become a Companion."

"Wh... I... a Companion?" Keljarn stammered, overcome by the offer. "Isn't that a bit early?"

Aela shrugged. "Only if you think it is. We're seeing Kodlak after breakfast. He has the final say, and he has to deem you worthy, but honestly, I think that's a formality. You were born to be in the Companions."

The acknowledgment sent a flush of warmth through him. "Well, I'm... overwhelmed." He knew better than to second-guess the Companions. If they felt he was worthy, then worthy he was.

"It's well-deserved," Aela said with a shrug. "Here comes Ria, let's keep this quiet until it's official."

"Sure."

They ate their breakfast while talking about all sorts of things, mostly Ria asking Keljarn all the details about the Wuuthrad fragment quest ("By Azura, you brought down a _draugr_?!") and gushing over how she was looking forward to joining experienced Companions for quests of her own. Keljarn was happy for her, and she deserved it, but he couldn't keep his mind off the fact that they were making him a Companion so soon. He'd only been here a few days, and Ria and Njada, though admittedly less experienced (and less lucky) than him, had to train for months to rise in rank. It was strange, really strange.

The topic shifted to the mer with the elfhawk, Athis, who'd been injured on the day Keljarn arrived in Whiterun. Apparently he was healing rather nicely, but he still needed lots of rest, so he'd been taken home for a while, to recover. The two brothers came up when they'd started breakfast, and eagerly partook, but not before Farkas got Njada out of her bed so she could serve more food and drink. The Nord girl had noticed Ria sitting at the table with the rest of them, put two and two together, and given Ria the vilest, most envious look Keljarn had ever seen. She only had herself to blame.

Skjor joined them last, not saying much, but with every word he said, he had Aela's full attention, and since Keljarn's senses didn't usually deceive him, he was pretty sure a certain ship had sailed for him. Unfortunate.

After breakfast, Aela rose and motioned for Keljarn to do the same. They silently crossed the mead hall and went down the stairs at the other side. "These are Kodlak's quarters. Your last step in becoming a Companion," she said with an encouraging smile.

"So what's this whole Underforge thing about?"

Aela frowned. "I said we'll explain later. First, you see Kodlak. When he approves, you're a Companion."

"So much mystery," Keljarn said with a grin.

"So much impatience," Aela said, grinning back.

Aela knocked on a wooden door and waited. After a few moments, a hoarse voice came through the wood. "Come."

"Your cue, _apprentice_."

"Right."

Keljarn opened the door and entered the room, finding himself face to face with an old, white-haired man with a long, equally white beard, wearing a suit of reinforced leather armour. Like the two brothers, he was, for want of a better word, abnormally hairy, the silver hair on his arms so thick it was almost fur. Age notwithstanding, the man looked like he could still pull the head off a brown bear. A triangular tattoo adorned his right cheek. "So. You must be Keljarn, our newest addition."

"I am. It's an honour to finally meet you, Harbinger."

The man laughed. "So formal. Please, you've proven yourself enough so I'll spare you the sceptical condescension-act. All of the Companions are in agreement of your talent and skill, even Skjor. And that doesn't happen very often."

"I do my best," Keljarn merely said. What was one supposed to say to such a compliment.

"Indeed." The man fell quiet and scrutinized Keljarn carefully. The silence lasted uncomfortably long, but finally, he said, "You've proven the strength of your arm, and the sharpness of your wit. Welcome, Companion."

Despite being assured by Aela that it was a formality, a wave of relief washed over Keljarn. "Thank you Harbinger. So do I... take orders from you now?"

The man laughed. "No, Companion, I don't give orders. I'm just..." he spread his hands. "... an advisor, of sorts."

"I could use some advice?"

"On?"

"Just... what do I do now?"

He smiled. "You go see your fellow Companions and observe them, learn from them. And you give apprentices the chance to observe you. Learn from you. You'll be fine."

"if you say so."

The old man laughed and slapped his knee. "I do say so. Now, let me just give you one more word of advice."

"Of course?"

"If you get invited to something called the Circle... think long and hard about whether you truly want to be part of it. I can't forbid the others to invite you, and I can't forbid you to join, but think on it. Very carefully and very well. That's all I ask."

"I thought the Companions weren't all that big on mystery?" Keljarn asked. "What's this whole Circle thing?"

Kodlak shook his head. "I can't say, Companion. You must decide for yourself. Just... make the decision carefully."

Well, looked like these people were high on drama after all. Still, Keljarn was never the type to make rash and stupid decisions, and he wasn't about to start now. "I'll be careful, Harbinger."

"All I ask. Now, off with you," he said with a friendly grin.

"Thank you for this honour," Keljarn said, but the man shooed him away, his grin widening. "Thank your fellows for recommending you. I'm sure they have a job for you already."

Indeed they had. The mysterious Underforge. Maybe that had to do with the Circle. He supposed he'd find out soon enough.

He spent the rest of the day training, sparring with Vilkas under the attentive eye of Ria. During the last two hours of training, Vilkas said that since he was a Companion now (which made Ria's eyes almost fall out of their sockets, but thankfully not in a petty or jealous way), he better earn his keep and start training the apprentices. So he did, spending two hours sparring with Ria while Vilkas worked with Njada. It was pretty clear now why the two women were promoted at a far slower pace than he had been. For all her devoted attitude, Ria had very little experience when it came to fighting, which wasn't all that surprising, since she'd spent most of her time observing, and very little time actually handling a weapon. Probably the way the Companions worked, and it was likely to be the same for Njada too, from what he saw. Keljarn wasn't a grizzled veteran, but he'd had quite a bit of training in the local militia, and from there in the mercenary group he'd been part of a few years ago. Inexperienced though Ria was, she applied herself with all her energy, sparring on despite her obvious tiredness and listening intently when Keljarn gave her advice, doing her best to incorporate it as soon as he'd explained.

He spent another hour pitting Ria and Njada against each other, and he had to admit, for all her attitude, Njada had been paying attention during training too, and Ria was outmatched in every match. Still, she was clearly doing her best to incorporate Keljarn's pointers into her fighting style, and it pleased him to see it.

The training had gone on without any incidents, and Keljarn was pleased to see Njada thanking Ria for the opportunity to practice, with Ria thanking her right back. He hoped Njada had learned her lesson and would be presenting herself a little more constructively from now on. The thought made him chuckle as he realized he it made him feel just like an experienced combat trainer, which he wasn't by any means.

Evening fell, and after a light meal of pork, vegetables and mead, Aela sent the two junior members to the sparring ground for clean-up. Farkas stood up and told Keljarn that it was time to go to the Underforge. The other Companions had already left the table.

Keljarn chuckled. "Gladly, if someone would finally tell me where it is?"

"Come on. I'll show you."

They went outside, into the Whiterun night. At the foot of the hill, Keljarn saw torches flicker, people walking to the taverns and mothers calling their children inside for bedtime. He heard the tinks of Adriana Avenicci's hammer, its owner still hard at work. It seemed like an age since he'd stood by her forge, talking about axes.

"Hey, daydreamer?" Farkas called out with a grin. "Come on, this is important."

"Sorry, I'm with you."

"Above, on this hill is the Skyforge," Farkas explained. "Where Eorlund makes his incredible weapons. You should visit it sometime. That axe you've got there is exceptional craftsmanship, but not even Adriana Avenicci can match the miracles Eorlund and the Skyforge can work."

"Yes," Keljarn said. "I really should go take a look."

"You should. But right now, we've got other things to discuss."

Farkas walked to the cobblestone wall at the foot of the Skyforge and inserted the tip of his dagger between two stones. There was a low grating sound, and a door opened, set with cobblestone so it was hidden until it was activated. "I present you, the Underforge," Farkas said, holding out his hand and inviting Keljarn in.

Faint heart never won fair lady and all that, so Keljarn took a breath and stepped inside.

It was dark as the pits in there, but there was just enough light to see that Skjor was there. Vilkas too. Where was Aela though? Maybe she wasn't part of the Circle? No, that couldn't be right. She'd told him about the Underforge. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a basin in the middle, though he couldn't see if it was filled. The air smelled of metal.

Skjor spoke after Farkas had come in and sealed the door again. "Don't worry," he said. "Aela's here too."

Vilkas nodded. "Aela, step forward, please?"

Keljarn thought his eyes would fall out of their sockets when he heard an animalistic breathing, and a large, hairy monster stepped forward, into the dim light. It was a muscled, hunched humanoid covered with brown fur, its head resembling that of a large wolf, with steel blue eyes, an elongated muzzle and a mouth filled with wicked fangs.

This wasn't... this couldn't be... the colour of that fur... "Aela?"

The creature reacted with a snort. This was the thing Farkas had also turned into. He'd heard of werewolves, but he'd always laughed at the silly myths, same as he'd been sceptical about the draugr, but like those draugr, this... this was real. Right before his eyes. "You're... werewolves?"

Vilkas nodded. "This is the Circle. All Circle members are Companions, but not all Companions are Circle members."

"Is she... dangerous?" Keljarn asked in a tiny voice.

The monster let out a mocking growl.

"Not to you, no," Skjor grinned. "But Talos help anyone who gets in her way."

Keljarn looked back at Farkas. "So when those five attackers fell on us, you..."

"I had to change, yes," Farkas admitted. "You weren't supposed to see this so soon, but it was that or both of us dead."

"Yes, Farkas... hastened the process a little," Vilkas said, a slight tone of chastisement towards his brother in his voice, "but we've discussed it, and we believe inviting you to the Circle is the best thing to do." He shrugged. "Since you already knew, in a way."

"But..." Keljarn protested. "... You're werewolves. I mean... Aren't you supposed to be... bloodthirsty monsters?"

Skjor gave a hoarse laugh. "That's what they tell you, isn't it? Does Aela look like a monster?" He checked himself. "Wait, don't answer that. Does she act like one?"

The Aela-wolf cocked its head at Keljarn, seeming perfectly docile.

"Well, honestly, what I saw from Farkas yesterday was monstrous enough."

Farkas shook his head. "Not monstrous. That was self-defence."

"A being is only monstrous," Vilkas said, "if he has no control over his actions. It's true that we're a terrible force if we bring our might to bear, but the code of honour we have in the Companions applies for the Circle as well. Only in self-defence or against people who deserve it."

"Your axe," Skjor continued, "is a force of destruction as well. But you have just as much control over it as we do over our beast forms. A weapon is only as terrible as its wielder. You don't hate the axe if it commits injustice, you hate the wielder."

"It's not the bow that kills," Farkas said.

"No," Keljarn said. "It's the arrow."

"It's the _wielder_," Vilkas corrected him with an irritated frown. "No one likes a smart pants."

"So... why are you telling me all this?" Keljarn asked, already hoping for the answer and dreading it just the same.

"You know why," Skjor said. "Our gift is yours if you want it."

So that really was what he was here for. His throat went dry. He knew he had the right to refuse, but he also knew if he did, there would never be a second offer, or a second chance. "Kodlak... Kodlak said to think long and hard on whether I want to accept this."

Farkas snorted. "Of course he did."

Vilkas shot his brother an admonishing look. "Much as we respect and admire Kodlak and his counsel, we..."

"... don't agree on the gift or curse of lycanthropy," Skjor took over. "Kodlak seems to think this is a curse, but we beg to differ." He swept his hand at Aela. "This shape is nothing more than a tool. It doesn't turn you into a madman," he chuckled, "or madwoman. You have increased strength, speed, agility, and there's no cost to pay, no lost sanity, no rampaging by moonlight, no abducting young maidens."

"You might get a little more adventurous. Grow a little more body hair," Farkas said, "And enjoy red meat a bit more." He laughed. "Hardly a curse, is it?"

They were right. They had to be. They hadn't steered him wrong so far, and they all seemed honourable. Even Aela, right now, in the form of a hulking, terrible beast had something noble about her. And this was a one time deal, he knew even though it hadn't been said. "No side effects, right? No insanity? Horrible dreams? Waking up naked and covered in blood?"

"None whatsoever," Skjor said solemnly. "Companion's honour."

Keljarn swallowed. His heart beat hard in his chest. "Can I have a day to think about this?"

Skjor nodded, and the other Companions with him. "It's not an easy decision. You can have one day, but on one condition."

"Let me guess," Keljarn said, relieved that he'd get to think things over for a little longer. "I don't speak of this to anyone?"

Vilkas nodded. "Exactly. Not even Kodlak. Not until you've made your decision. The others, not at all."

"I can keep a secret," Keljarn said with a nod.

"Good," Skjor said. "Now let's leave Aela on her own so she can shapeshift back."

With a chuckle, Farkas added, "Aela wouldn't appreciate us standing right here while she shifts out of the form that grew so quickly it tore most of her clothes to shreds. Unfortunately."

The Aela-beast gave a threatening growl toward the bearded Nord, but Farkas' reaction showed the whole thing was in jest.

"Come on," Vilkas told Keljarn, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Take your time to think things over, and have your answer ready tomorrow evening. Until then, we've got something to keep you busy."

"Since you know what we are now," Skjor said, "You're also entitled to know who hunts us. Aela will give you all the information you need once she's dressed and ready."

The stone door fell back into place and they found themselves in the cool evening air.

"Farkas, no peeking," his brother said with a grin.

"What kind of creep do you take me for, brother?" Farkas laughed back.

Skjor, meanwhile, continued to explain to Keljarn. "They're called the Silver Hand, and they think as you did before you came into the Underforge. That we're crazed beasts, rampaging demons that tear childrens' throats open at night and devour maidens in oceans of blood." He rolled his eyes. "You know the type, and you know the drama."

Keljarn did know the type. Not those people specifically, but those narrow-minded crusaders who'd passed judgment on one kind of people, condemning them as animals or subhumans and swearing to eradicate them. They were usually lunatics, but sometimes... sometimes they were right. Though the name did suddenly ring a bell. "The Silver Hand, I've heard that before."

Farkas fell into step beside them as they walked back into Jorrvaskr. "They're the ones who ambushed us yesterday. They want us dead, plain and simple, and they don't even remember why. Or care."

"Exactly," Skjor said, leading them back inside. "Njada, mead, double-time it!"

The sour girl trotted off with an equally sour face. Ria was nowhere to be found. Skjor made certain of that with a quick look around and went on, his one eye fixating on Keljarn. "We've found out where they are right now. They're have a camp near Gallows Rock."

Keljarn knew the place. It wasn't all that far. Close to Windhelm, nestled against the mountain chain to the east. "So I assume you're going there to serve them roast deer and a bottle of Blackbriar reserve?"

"Close," Skjor said with a grin. "We're going to tear them to bits."

"Sure that's necessary?"

Farkas nodded, sitting down at the table opposite Keljarn. "Them or us, friend."

"You've already seen," his brother said, "how they actively hunt us, set traps for us. They want us dead, and they will not stop until they achieve their goal, or they're dead themselves."

Silence fell while Njada set the mead and cups on the table. Only when she'd gone again, did Skjor down his cup in two big gulps, stand up and say, "I'm going to scout ahead. When Aela's ready, you two come after me so we can decide on our plan of attack."

"You're going alone?" Keljarn said. "Isn't that dangerous?"

Skjor laughed. "It's the Companions, milk drinker! Everything we do is dangerous."

"I'll go with you now if you – "

Skjor shook his head. "I move faster on my own."

"Careful," Farkas said with a grin. "Last guy who said that got a crossbow bolt in the back of the head."

Skjor chuckled and then said, "Farkas and Vilkas stay here to defend Jorrvaskr. You and Aela come after me. Then we kick the Silver Hand right out of Skyrim." Not waiting for an answer, he stomped off to his room, collected his things and walked out, sparing the others only a brief, grim nod.

"Skjor will be fine," Farkas said. "Have some bread, you've got a long journey ahead of you."

They ate while Farkas and Vilkas explained the way to Gallows Rock (which Keljarn didn't mention he knew already), and as he finished his last hunk of bread and dried meat, he saw Aela enter the mead hall. It looked like she'd never even been in the Underforge, let alone as a massive, hairy juggernaut of destruction. She briefly joined them, scoffing down several strips of dried meat at once, then nodding to Keljarn, with a full mouth saying, "Let's go."

Keljarn didn't have a lot of things to collect, and neither did Aela, and after around fifteen minutes, they found themselves at the door of Jorrvaskr, ready to follow Skjor, walking through the city of Whiterun, its usual bustle died down, the city lying calm and tranquil in the night, with only the occasional torch-holding guard walking past and nodding a greeting. It'd have been something Keljarn had looked forward to with nervous anticipation, spending the whole night with Aela and no one else, but the looks she'd given Skjor told her he'd waste his time trying. Stupid, stupid. But then, there were other fish in the sea and that.

Just as he thought that, Aela broke the silence they walked in, saying, "I'm not going to boast about my female intuition here, but I do think Ria's got a certain interest in you."

"Really?" Keljarn asked. He certainly hadn't seen anything of the kind. And besides, it wasn't Ria he hoped had an interest in him. "I think she's just glad she's no longer the newest member."

Aela gave a lopsided smile. They were out the gates of Whiterun now, feeling the cold night air on their faces as they walked across the rolling plains. The mountains were a black formation against the dark blue of the night, looking impossibly far. "Oh no. It's not just that. I see her looking at you all the time when she thinks no one sees."

"Oh." Hm, that was a bit awkward. "Well, um... she's nice and all, but she's not really..."

"Your cup of mead. I know," Aela said with a nod. Her boots tocked on the wood of the bridge they were crossing. "No one else in your life, though?"

That was a strange question. Didn't people always ask that when they had an interest themselves? Of course, Aela clearly didn't, but why did she ask then? He mentally kicked himself for hoping. "No, I'm a gay bachelor at the moment. Not really looking, but not minding if something comes along. You know."

"M-hm."

Even though Keljarn knew he didn't want to hear the answer, he asked anyway. "What about you? No brawny blonde Nord demigod waiting for Aela to come home?" He sounded like an idiot. It wasn't often that happened to him. Nine, he really was crushing.

"Not really, no," Aela said, looking straight ahead. Hope flared up in Keljarn's chest, but it proved vain when Aela looked at the ground, grinned like an embarrassed teen and said, "At least, not yet."

Well, that was that. It was, in a way, good that he knew it for sure now. No time or effort wasted in hoping and speculating. And he'd already been made a Companion in such a short time, and been offered to join the Circle. Couldn't win them all.

They walked on, Keljarn telling Aela about his childhood, about his mixed heritage, about his teenage years when his long hair had gone a premature gray, about his reasons for coming back to Skyrim, and all those things, while Aela nodded and m-hm'ed in response, sometimes taking over with some history of her own. Despite having to stow his hopes back in his cupboard, Keljarn enjoyed the time with her, just talking and getting to know each other. Even though this wild beauty (with the slightly scary ability to shapeshift into a terrible monster) had already set her sights on someone else, it was relaxing and pleasant to just build a friendship. The feeling would keep nagging, but just having a good time together was a lot already. It almost made him forget they were on the way to kill off a group of werewolf-hunters.

"Should be on that hilltop there," Aela pointed out. When Keljarn saw nothing at all, she added with a chuckle, "Sharper senses is a little side benefit of becoming a supposed 'bloodthirsty monster'."

"Yes, yes, alright, I take it back," Keljarn said, grinning at the morning air. "So weren't we supposed to meet Skjor somewhere around here?"

Aela nodded. "Yes, and it worries me."

"Well... it's not like he can't take care of himself, right?"

"No, of course, but... he shouldn't have come without a shield-brother."

"He said he moved – "

"Yes, yes," she interrupted him. "He prefers to work alone." She gnawed at her lower lip. "I hope nothing happened to him."

Keljarn obviously couldn't answer that question, so he just said, "Come on, let's go see, we'll find him."

Dawn was lighting the dark blues at the horizon, and they could see a bit more as they quietly sneaked up the hill, Aela pointing out the best side of approach, using her 'sharper senses' to discern which side would be less visible to the Silver Hand members on the hilltop. As they climbed the mossy rocks, weaving between the pine trees, Keljarn briefly realized that he was going to kill people of whom he only knew what these people had told him, but he pushed the thought away.

"Up there," Aela whispered, stopping her approach. She took cover between the two pine trees near her and motioned for Keljarn to do the same. He hid behind a rock and peered over it, seeing two shapes standing on the hilltop, talking to each other. Aela made the redundant gesture of a finger over her lips.

They waited for a tense half minute, and then the two shapes moved on, going out of sight.

Aela nodded and they resumed their creep up the hill., their boots making almost no sound on the moss. They were so close now, they could hear the murmur of talking voices.

And then, suddenly, the loud screaming whine of a dog being tortured.

No, not a dog. A wolf.

Aela uncoiled like a spring, sending her body racing up the hill, drawing her bow in the process. Keljarn followed a moment later, hoping he wasn't just charging to his own death.

With a roar, Aela reached the top of the hill and let fly. Keljarn also made it and ran past her, seeing the first of the hunters drop with an arrow through his throat. A hunter had gotten over her surprise and lunged at him, but Keljarn's axe went under her clumsy blow, chopping into her abdomen and coming back out with red, ropy guts trailing behind it, their previous owner whirling around like a burst rag doll. In his speed, Keljarn only saw a spray of red as he charged past her. The other hunter set himself against the charge, and Keljarn body-slammed against his shield, bowling them both over. The rolled over the grass and fallen pinecones, and Keljarn delivered a hard punch to his opponent's nose, stunning him before bringing his axe down and splitting the man's head like a log, cracking the skull in two, bright red and yellow brain tissue splatting out. The man's split head still moved, the jaw working feebly as Keljarn got back to his feet and deflected a hard sword blow. His foot lashed out, catching his enemy between the legs. The man wheezed and fell back, and Keljarn let his axe come down, getting it stuck in the torso of the hunter. The man gurgled, went to his knees, and fell down as Keljarn kicked him off the blade of his axe.

Aela, meanwhile, had dispatched her other opponent as well, stabbing her in the eye with her dagger. Keljarn was in time to see her twist the knife in the other woman's skull. Feebly clawing at Aela's hand, the hunter fell down.

"That's that," she said grimly. "Now we have to... Oh, Nine, no, _no_!"

Her face panicked, she suddenly rushed forward. Keljarn's eyes followed her path and fell on the wooden frame, hastily erected, and the heavy ropes coiled around it. And in the frame, the creature hung in a splayed position, red blood running thick through its black fur.

"Talk to me! Talk to me!" Aela shouted at the werewolf, but there was no response. Keljarn thought briefly to tell her this might not be Skjor, but then he saw the werewolf's face, and the white glass eye in one of the socket.

The torture inflicted on the late Companion was horrible, nauseating. His eye teeth were pulled, hands were hacked off, and they had apparently been in the process of flaying him alive, half the skin of his torso cut away, hanging from his body in a bloody flap, the muscles behind showing in horrible raw red.

"Skjor! Skjor!" Aela wailed. "What have they done to you!"

"Aela," Keljarn said quietly, more to say something than to actually be of use, "There's nothing we can do for him anymore. His pain is over, he's free now."

Aela stood looking at the tortured werewolf, breathing hard through her nose. "They'll pay for this," she growled. "They'll... they'll..."

"Aela – "

Skjor's wolf head briefly moved, his eye wobbling and then fixating on Aela.

"Skjor! Skjor, don't worry, we'll... Keljarn! Keljarn, heal him! You can cast spells, _do it_!"

It was no use, Keljarn knew, and he was certain that Skjor knew it too, but he still prepared his feeble healing spell. It would only prolong his suffering, but Aela needed him to do everything he could, even if it was useless. He concentrated on the flowing energies of nature, in the air all around them, and gathered them so they could be directed at the weeping, unimaginably painful wounds covering his new brother in arms.

"Wait, wait," Aela said hoarsely. "Stop."

Skjor's head feebly moved from side to side. His destroyed maw tried to move and make sounds, but he hadn't the strength.

Both Keljarn and Aela knew what he meant, and Aela drew her dagger from its sheath, still red with the blood of the dead hunters, and pushed it straight between Skjor's ribs, ending the Companion's suffering.


	18. Siari: Mourning Never Comes

**.**

**SIARI**

**Mourning Never Comes**

**Sanctuary**

"Awh, Festus, you're talking crazy again, you old codger."

"Not so much of the old there," the old mage retorted, "you ancient crone."

Babette laughed. "At least I still have my looks. So anyway, you all think dying of poison is less painful than a dagger through the heart?" Siari stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb with her arms crossed, listening to the conversation.

"Well," Gabrielle said back, "it depends on the poison, but yes." The Dunmer had arrived a day after Siari's enlistment, and during her five months of training, Siari had gotten along rather well with her. Well, if you could call it that. Gabrielle found Siari's silence her best quality, and wasn't afraid to say so.

Babette chirped. "You guys are so short-sighted. Just because a person isn't screaming and flailing, doesn't mean they're in pain."

"I think you're all full of shit," Nazir said, shouldering past Siari and sitting down at the table, picking up an apple by stabbing it with his knife. Because why use your hands when you can use a knife and feel impressive. "Only one not talking nonsense is her over there," he pointed his chin at Siari. "And if she could, she'd probably make just as little sense as you do." Heh, Nazir always wanted to give himself the air of the Only Sane Man. They all indulged him usually, because it made it that much more fun to act childish.

Babette rolled her eyes. "Sound the alarms," she said in a bored voice. "Party Pooper Nazir has entered the building."

"Speaking of party pooping." Nazir said, ignoring the ridicule, "It's been five months now, hasn't it?" He was speaking to Siari, and she nodded in return. Nazir bit the apple and said with his mouth full, "means you're ready for your first pro contract. I've spoken to Astrid and she's given me the go-ahead. Means you're off my back tomorrow."

Siari knew he was just giving himself an attitude. The man, along with the others, had trained her in just about every aspect of assassination, Babette teaching her how to blend in, how to act inconspicuous and get close enough for the kill, Gabrielle teaching her about potions and poisons, and Nazir sparring with her to teach her to handle herself if she did get found out. Veezara had taught her to sneak, and she'd taken to that surprisingly well. The Argonian had joked that she was quiet in the two ways that mattered. Festus had tried to teach her magick, but a few frustrating days later, they'd both concluded she had exactly zero magickal aptitude.

Getting to know everyone had been a bit of an ordeal in the beginning, especially having to 'explain' to everyone why she was so quiet, and then being guaranteed to be asked to show it, rolling her eyes every time and opening her mouth, being treated to a grimace from everyone who saw the remains of her tongue in the back of her mouth. Well, except Arnbjorn, but she assumed nothing could faze him. Arnbjorn scared her. _Really_ scared her. Not just the werewolf thing. Sometimes she saw him looking at her with a look of unconcealed suspicion. The fact that he always addressed her as either 'rabbit leg' or 'chicken breast' or 'veal cutlet' (or the withering 'nub-tongue' when he was angry) didn't help either.

Astrid had made sure everyone accepted her though, and in most cases, it was pretty easy. Almost impossible to offend people if you couldn't speak. Babette had taken her under her undersized wing immediately, calling Siari her 'young protégée', and Festus, in his psychotic way, seemed to be the type to get along with everyone, just like Veezara. Gabrielle had been a bit more reserved, but she'd thawed after a while. And Nazir, well, Nazir kept giving himself an attitude of not caring about her at all, but his diligence and patience while training her showed he cared much more than he let on.

But her first professional contract tonight. She felt herself going all giddy at the prospect. A bit nervous too, but killing the beggar had gone easily enough. She'd never been worried about hesitating, or growing soft-hearted, but she worried all the more about botching the job, or making it sloppy and unprofessional. She wanted her new brothers and sisters to be proud of her, not to think of her as an embarrassment, or worse, a failure. She refused to lose this family now that she'd finally found it.

Still, no reason to think things would go south. She'd been well trained, and the gear she'd gotten would help immensely. It was enchanted. _Enchanted! _She had never in her life dared to hope she'd possess something _enchanted_. The supple leather chestpiece had a strange texture, as if it adapted to the background when she was hiding, and the gloves and boots could cling to just about any surface if the wearer focused enough and made her hands and feet make contact just the right way. She'd trained enough to be able to climb walls without fear, and if she trained more, she was certain she'd make the skill of climbing ceilings her own. The boots and gloves were unique, Astrid had told her. Everyone had the same chestpiece, but boots and gloves were all different. Astrid's gloves, for instance, let her throw daggers with jaw-dropping accuracy, tailored to her preferred method of killing. Babette's boots let her leap fast and far, good for either a surprise pounce or a quick escape. And these were Siari's: the leather gloves with studs on the knuckles and the second halves of the index, thumb and ring finger removed for better manipulation, and her fortified, but still completely noiseless boots that fit so snugly around her foot and lower leg that they hurt if worn longer than eight hours. And then there was her mask, the same mask they all had, enchanted to muffle breathing sounds while still letting air through comfortably. Every joint of every piece of armour was treated with a dulling compound and padded and muffled to minimize sound. It was assassin's garb if ever there was any. And it was finally Siari's turn to put it on, not for training, but for real.

Nazir saw her enthusiasm and smirked. "Well, good to see you're eager. I can give you the details now if you don't mind people hearing?"

Siari shrugged. Of course she didn't mind. They were _family_.

He bit another chunk off the apple. Good for him that these apples weren't like the ones in Cheydinhal, used to poison an entire Brotherhood chapter. They'd died in horrible agony, killed by their newest member, who'd declared to have been following the commands of the Night Mother, a shadowy and enigmatic spirit or goddess or demon commanding the Dark Brotherhood. Though belief in the Night Mother was absolute, opinions were divided as to the veracity of the recruit's claim, including here, in the Skyrim Sanctuary. Whatever the case, the entire chapter had been wiped out, and the new recruit had disappeared.

"Someone in Markarth performed the Black Sacrament," Nazir said, again with his mouth full, taking Siari back to the present. "Young apothecary's assistant. She'll be found in, you guessed it, the apothecary. Again, it's the assistant you need, not the owner." He bit the apple again. "Shouldn't be difficult. Owner's old and ugly, assistant's young and supposedly one of the prettiest women in Markarth."

"That so?" Festus said. "Perhaps I should accompany our young fledgling, to make sure she does the job well?"

Siari grinned, Babette let out a knowing chuckle, and Nazir was onto him as well. "Nice try, old geezer, but you're needed in Falkreath. Besides, she'll do just fine on her own. Since this is your first job," he said, back to Siari, "I've arranged with Astrid that you get to keep the full pay. Customary. From then on, you pass the pay for all your contracts to the Brotherhood, and we pay you from that money. Ensures that everyone gets paid fairly."

Siari nodded, then motioned for him to go on.

"Right. So, there's not much information apart from the client's name, but she'll be sure to tell you who needs to die, and what the specifics are. Girl's been running her mouth, wants her ex-lover killed, or something. She'll be generous, they always are. That's all I can tell you for now, hoof it to Markarth and see the apothecary. If she's as tasty as they claim, don't forget to mention I'm single."

Siari raised an eyebrow. Mention? Nazir flapped his hand and said, "Ah, you know, just... just write her a note or something."

Yes, she'd file that objective under 'optional'. She went back to her room, which she shared with Babette and Gabrielle, and started to pack. There were a lot of helpful documents in the Sanctuary's book stands, and among them was a nice list of all the things one should pack on a job, according to duration, objective, expected challenges, and so forth. This job was pretty much unknown, but Siari didn't think she'd need climbing gear or a tent or anything of the sort. Markarth wasn't that far away, and it was better to travel light so she could jog most of the way there. She packed fresh undergarments and a few dry snacks for the road, and that was it.

After being told goodbye and good luck by Astrid, she left the Sanctuary and was on her way, jogging along, first through the surrounding woods, then across the plains of Whiterun, past some freaky jester-type who asked her to help him get his cart back on the road, and who she'd simply ignored. When she skirted the city, she saw the freshly-slain cadaver of a giant lying sprawled on the grass. That must have been a battle. She stopped at a windmill, eating a chunk of biscuit in the shade and letting her muscles rest, and then she was off again, running half the way there and paying a few septims for a stay in a farm just off the road.

She reached Markarth the next day, in the afternoon. The trip had felt wonderful, her spirits kept high by the realization that she was helping her brothers and sisters. That she'd be doing so by taking a person's life didn't even occur to her.

Markarth was a city made of heavy, thick-walled stone buildings, most of them nestled against a rock face. In fact, the entire city lay against a rock wall, making it impervious to assault and even inaccessible except from one side. Green moss crept up the buildings, but nobody seemed to mind. The shallow canals that ran along the narrow streets had clear, ice cold water in them, and Siari didn't pass up the opportunity to take a drink, uncaring how people would see her.

The next thing she did was tap one of the town guards on the shoulder. The man was bored anyway, so might as well bother him instead of the working man.

"Yes, young lady?"

Making her most harmless face, she held up the picture she'd drawn in charcoal before leaving, of a mortar and pestle with a big 'A' underneath.

"Ah, you're looking for the Apothecary?"

Siari smiled and nodded.

"Follow this alley upwards, then take a left. Apothecary's the third house."

With a short bow of thanks, she walked up, climbing the steep alleyway until she came to an intersection. She took the left and indeed, there it was, third house, with a signboard hanging from it featuring, yes, a mortar and pestle. The Hag's Cure.

Right, no more fun in the sun now. This was serious. She'd have to make an impression. Sinister, but not overdramatic. Professional, but not arrogant. Neutral, but not unwilling. Tying her brown hair back in a ponytail would make her look more severe. Nothing she could do about the straight-cut fringe over her forehead, but no matter. She swallowed, then pushed the door open, finding herself in a gloomy alchemy shop, with shelves stacked with plants, minerals, and all other kinds of substances. An old woman with wicked facial tattoos stood behind the counter, grinding ingredients in a mortar, while a younger woman with a horizontal tattooed stripe across the bridge of her nose was conversing with a customer, resuming her explanation after being interrupted by the old woman. "… past Solitude, keep following the shoreline East, you'll reach Winterhold eventually."

The owner of the shop let out a grunting sigh of disapproval and resumed her potion-making.

The man, meanwhile, a twenty-ish Nord with sand-coloured curls, abruptly turned on his heels without even muttering a word of thanks, and stomped out, shoulder-checking Siari as he did so. Asshole.

"Yes, can I help you?" the young woman asked, smiling at Siari. Young, apothecary's assistant, and great-looking, yep, this was certain to be her. Siari simply remained silent, hoping just a marked stare would convey the message.

And oh yes, it did.

The girl's breathing briefly stalled and then she nervously said, clearly improvised, "Oh you're, you're here for the, the delivery. It's in the uh, back room, I'll show you."

Siari said nothing and followed the assistant to the back of the store, where she quickly unlatched a door, let Siari in, and then closed it behind her. "You're... you're with them, right?"

Siari crossed her arms and cocked her head, but remained silent. She decided to make it her trademark. It wouldn't be a difficult one to uphold either. Maybe in time, people knew immediately who they were dealing with if they were met with a cold, stony silence. A girl could hope.

"Sorry," the assistant said. "I didn't know, I mean, I wasn't even sure it worked. And... well, I hadn't expected someone so young."

Siari raised an impatient eyebrow. She had to look tough, detached and confident.

"Of course, the, uh... the contract." The girl sat down and took a breath, her cheeks flushed with red. "It's... it's like this. I need someone killed."

The best response to that was an impatient sigh, and so Siari did just that. She had to make sure the woman got the impression she was dealing with a trained killer, not a rookie.

"Yes, yes, of course, you already know that." She sighed and looked at the ground. "Alain Dufont. He's... my former lover. Broke it off with him when I found out he was leading a bunch of cutthroats. Bastard made me give myself away to a murderer." She looked up at Siari. "I need him hunted and put down like the dog that he is."

Well, well. This pretty princess had some spark in her after all. Siari gave a short nod.

"He's... he usually hangs around an old Dwemer ruin with his murdering, thieving friends. Raldbthar. That's where it is. In the mountains just northeast of here. Can't miss it. I don't care about his friends, it's just Alain who needs to die. Of course, if you want to enjoy yourself cutting their throats as well, I won't be sad."

With a shrug, Siari showed her she didn't care one way or the other either. If one got in the way, she'd have to kill him too, but better not to take risks and leave them alone if she could. She had enough to go on for now, but there was one more matter. She held out her hand and made a come-hither gesture with her fingers.

"You want... payment now?"

Siari's face told her enough, apparently. All up front, Astrid had made it very clear. All up front or the client gets a free murder – his own. "I'll... have to see if... I can't just, I mean, I have the money, but could you come by my house to pick it up tonight?"

She supposed she could indulge her client that much.

"Thanks. It's just hard to hand you a big purse right here in the store."

Siari nodded. "Sure."

"The uh, not speaking... is that mandatory Brotherhood stuff? Because you're making me seriously uncomfortable," the woman said with a guilty face. Good, that was the intention. Still, Siari pointed only at herself.

"Oh. So just you, then?"

Yes. Just her.

"Tonight, then?" She quickly scrawled the address on a piece of paper and handed it to Siari. I'm good for it, I promise."

Siari only gave an aloof nod as she slipped the paper in her pocket. You'd better be good for it, potion-pusher. She had no intention or desire to ignore what Astrid had told her.

"Here," the woman said, taking a package off the shelf and handing it to Siari. "You came for a delivery, right?"

Oh. Right.

Nothing stopped her from doing some reconnaissance while she waited for the evening, Siari supposed. The sun was warm for the time of year, and she'd still have light for a few hours, so she left the city again and walked to the northeast, dumping the package of useless herbs by the side of the road. Indeed, the jutting tower of a Dwemer ruin was clearly visible, sticking out of the mountain face, partially collapsed. This must be... that place with the unrememberable name. Where her mark was. She wasn't afraid or nervous. Well, maybe just a bit. But mostly excited. She already imagined herself coming back to the Sanctuary, being asked by Astrid or Nazir if the job had ended well, and giving a self-satisfied nod, answering the way they expected. It'd be the first of a long line, of that she was sure. She would not let her new family down.

She'd walked for about an hour, so it was time to head back to Markarth, treat herself to a warm dinner, and go pick up the gold. Or stab that potion pusher in the tit. Either was fine with her, as long as the job didn't go sour because she'd made a mistake.

Putting on her cold killer face again, Siari rapped on the door of the woman's house. The assistant's face appeared in the crack in the doorway as it opened. "Come in," she hissed. "Quickly."

Siari made an unimpressed face and went inside.

"Here it is," the woman whispered even though there was no one there to hear. "Three hundred, right?"

Siari gave a curt nod and took the purse, picking out a random septim and setting her teeth into it to make sure it was genuine.

"I uh, I know better than to try and scam the Brotherhood," the woman said with a nervous chuckle. "Alain's got a goatee and a ponytail. So that's all you need, then?"

Siari hefted the purse in her hands. The weight felt right. She nodded, turned, and left.

She walked the distance back to the Dwemer ruin, but this time she wouldn't return to Markarth. She didn't need to report to her client or any of that silliness. She'd find out soon enough that her ex-beau had been shanked. Gossip always travelled fast, no matter the size of the city.

Now, time for business.

_Alright_, she thought to herself, _let's do this_. She pulled the hood over her head and pulled the mask up, hiding everything but her eyes. Now she was in full assassin mode. She had to admit to herself that it felt pretty badass. She slid her dagger from its sheath and took it in an underhanded grip. Finally, time to put her training into practice.

The Alain character headed a band of cutthroats, so he was bound to not be alone. And even though she felt tough as nails, she had to repeat to herself that these people weren't helpless kittens. They'd probably cut off more than her tongue if they got their hands on her, and despite Nazir's training, she knew she'd be sliced to ribbons in a straight fight. She'd have to remain unseen, at least until the deed was done.

Hunkering behind a rock, she watched the metal door that led to the ruins. No one came in or out for more than an hour, and she figured the jolly band had turned in for the night. The stars told her it was around midnight. Just a little longer, until she was sure they all slept. Hadn't posted a guard, the losers. Part of Siari's training had been to look out for guards and subdue or kill them, but it wasn't even necessary in this case. They were making it easy. With any luck, they'd drink themselves into a stupor and that would make it even more of a cakewalk.

She waited for a few minutes longer, then left her hiding place. She crept closer to the door and encountered her first obstacle. The damn thing was locked. She took out the lockpicks she carried as part of her equipment, but then realized there was no lock to pick. Hmm.

She all but slapped herself on the forehead when she saw the smoothly-polished button set into the wall. Of course, Dwemer were obsessed with machinery and relays, so they wouldn't have a normal way to open a door, no, it had to be with a button hooked to a mechanism. Siari rolled her eyes and slapped her hand on the button.

The door opened with a loud metallic grating, which made Siari wince. Seriously? These wankers couldn't oil the hinges every now and then? Imagine having to hear this noise every day. Of course, it did serve as an efficient warning system, and Siari quickly darted back to her hiding spot to see if anyone came out. No one did. She permitted herself to hope her guess of a drunken stupor was actually accurate. Imagine.

She sneaked closer again, and crept inside. No one was in the antechamber, and she silently went on, past the polished, gray stone walls set with bronze and copper ornaments. The Dwemer ruin had an extremely high ceiling, as they all did, and this made the rooms feel narrower than they actually were. Against the wall, a strange automaton lay motionless, its bronze limbs pitted, bent and scratched. The ruin had apparently not given itself freely to these cutthroats.

She went through an arch, not making a sound, and found herself in an enormous room, the ceiling even higher than before. The room itself was vast, at least fifty metres long and just as wide. She stood at the top of a short step, just a metre in height, and aimed at her were two heavy ballistae, which the Dwemer must have used against attackers. She quickly, silently, side-stepped out of the siege weapons' aim and then took better stock of her surroundings. In the middle of the room, around twenty metres ahead, was a small fire, with a cooking pot suspended above it from a flimsy wooden frame. Around the fire lay several bags, long and narrow. Sleeping bags.

Oh this, this was too good to be true.

Siari's eyes went from the sleeping bags to the ballistae and back again. Astrid had told her to not just depend on her knife, but to always look for ways to use the environment to her advantage, citing the story of a Dark Brotherhood member in Cyrodiil (who may or may not have been the new recruit who'd wiped out the chapter), and this member's creative means of dispatching a Bruma citizen by making a hunting trophy fall on the mark's head, impaling him with the sharp horns. No one had known it had been an assassination.

They'd know now, but in this case, it didn't really matter much. No one would investigate a dead outlaw or two. Besides, these dunderheads had probably made so many enemies the list of suspects would be endless.

Now, the ballista. First thing was to see if it could be rotated, and how far. Siara inspected the foot of the device and saw grind marks go all the way around. Haha, good! Now then, how to fire this thing. It had two large handles, probably the cranequin for drawing the heavy string, and another handle set into the body, a lever that had to be pushed down. That would be the trigger mechanism.

Oh man, this was going to be a joy to behold.

Siari took hold of one of the ballistae and rotated it on its foot so it faced the collection of sleeping bags. The blockheads hadn't even woken up from the grinding sound of the rotating ballista. Even better. She checked to see the string was drawn (it was) and that a bolt was loaded (it was). Good, good. She tiptoed to the other ballista and readied it in a similar fashion.

Her heart raced with anticipation at seeing her cunning plan unfold.

Peering down the thing's sights, she trained it on the collection of sleeping bags. Plan was to shoot one bolt straight into the group, probably impaling a few of them (rude awakening right there!) and then scooting over to the other ballista while the survivors got to their feet, and then fire one massive bolt right in the face of whoever had a goatee and a ponytail.

With a grin, she closed her fingers around the lever and pulled.

A loud _blang_ sounded as the mechanism released, but the bow of the ballista flew off, and the bolt was propelled upwards, going end over end before hitting the ground with a series of painfully loud clangs. Damn it damn it!

"Hey what the sodding shit?"

This had woken them alright.

"Assassin!"one of the men screamed in a panicked voice. "Assassin! Get her!"

More thugs rose now, all in their sleeping clothes, which for some meant clothes and all, and for others meant just undergarments. One of those men had a goatee, and wore his hair in a ponytail, which was messed up from sleeping. That was her mark!

But daedra damn it, that ballista! The second one had better work or she'd be in really, _really _big shit! She ran over to it as fast as she could, determined not to give the thugs time to grab their weapons and come after her.

An arrow zipped past her, clinking off the wall behind. Oh great, one of them had a bow. She skidded to a halt behind the other ballista, and the gang leader knew what she was doing. Standing there in his loincloth, he swept his hand at his cronies. "Get down! Down!"

Oh, if only he'd followed his own advice. Siari ducked her head out of the way of another arrow and pulled the lever. _Please work_.

The ballista let fly, its massive bolt unerringly making a stripe through the darkness, impaling the only gang member still standing, lifting him off his feet, his arms and legs trailing behind him, and depositing him back on the ground several metres further, the bolt still embedded in his abdomen. The body came down, and dragged on by its momentum, was lifted up on the bolt that impaled it, then overbalanced and came down again.

The man was _dead. _Nobody survived such a horrible trauma.

"Get her!"

The other thugs jumped to their feet, fully aware the ballista was discharged. Siari abandoned her position and ran, the four remaining henchmen giving pursuit. There was a sharp pain in her shoulder as an arrow struck her, but from the corner of her eye, Siari saw it glance off and twirl end over end, blood spattering from it as it went. She stumbled from the impact but kept her footing. The next moment, she was back in the antechamber, and out of the bowman's line of sight, leaving only three to deal with. She ran on, the footsteps of her pursuers behind her, and dashed through the still-open door, back into the night sky. Her legs took her down the mountain path, and another arrow zipped past her, this one nowhere near her. The dirt bag with the bow wasn't a quitter, but she was too far now. She risked a look back. One of the thugs had given up already, and only two were pursuing her now. Just as she looked back, though, one of those two slipped, losing his footing on the edge of the path, and his weight and momentum dragged him over, sending him to a screaming, broken death on the sharp rocks tens of metres below. She heard him shriek as he went down, the cry cut short by a wet thudding sound. The sound of the falling body was repeated a few more times, the shrieking wasn't.

The last pursuer was female, and much more lithe and in better shape than the others. She was gaining, Siari noticed as she looked back one more time. Shit, shit. This one would catch her and they'd both be too tired to fight, making it sure and certain who'd bite the dust. But the other thug's grisly death had given her an idea. Abruptly, Siari pulled her weight to the side, throwing herself off the path.

She went with her head down, and slapped her hands against the overhanging rock wall, pulling her weight under the overhang. Her legs swung along, and she planted her feet against the rock as well, keeping her suspended by the overhang under the path. They'd think she'd just fallen to her death.

"Baste my butt, she went over!" Siari heard the woman pant.

There was a brief silence, and the woman shouted back, probably to the thug who'd stopped to catch his breath, "I don't know, I can't tell. Misty down there though. Nobody could have survived that."

Siari remained suspended under the overhang, trying to pant as quietly as possible.

"I said I can't see, dammit! What about Neruf?"

She could hear the other's voice better now. He was apparently coming closer, to check for himself. "Neruf's gone," she heard a male voice say. "Can't see his body for the mist, but rocks are red with blood where he went down. Morghen went to check on Alain."

"Fuck, man," the woman said. "And you can bet Alain's dead too. Well, at least that little cunt burst apart on the rock face. We'll go check when it's daylight. Looking forward to seeing her guts draped over the rocks."

Yeah, you keep looking forward to that, girl.

"Come on. Let's go check on Alain," the man said.

"What's there to check on?" the female snapped back. "He's fucking dead, you know that."

A sigh. "He was an asshole. Not a big loss."

"Who'd you think sent that little whore anyway? I bet it was that bitch from the apothecary. I say we – "

"Ah, shut up," the man said in an annoyed voice. "That dumb ninny doesn't even know what an assassin is. And who cares. Like I said, he was an asshole, and now we can start for ourselves."

Siari's muscles began to burn. Were these two really going to chat the night away on this windswept mountain path? She set her teeth and hung on. Her shoulder, struck by the arrow, pulsated in pain, the muscles of her arm almost powerless.

"Come on, let's go inside. Divide Alain and Neruf's stuff."

The woman suddenly sounded suspicious. "You're not gonna stab me in the back, are you?"

"Of course not. Come on."

Siari heard the voices coming from farther and farther. They'd given up. Good. Her calves and forearms burned from hanging on to the rock, at this almost-upside-down angle. When she was convinced they were far enough, she quietly let her boots detach from the rock and searched for footing. Her boots made contact with the stone below her, and she let her hands go too, so she stood upright on a jutting rock, still hidden under the overhang. Haha, suckers.

It was best not to head back up and go down the mountain path. It was only a descent of about thirty metres, and the rock face wasn't entirely vertical, so with the help of her boots and gloves, she'd be able to descend without much risk. She took a quick breather, squatting on the rock, and then began climbing. It was a tough descent, but manageable, and even in the dark, she could see the hand- and footholds just fine, the waxing moon breaking through the clouds often enough for her to see what she needed to.

It took her about half an hour, and she was down, setting her feet down on the soft grass of the rolling Skyrim plains. Permitting herself a contented look up at the rock face she'd just descended, she took a moment to let her muscles rest, then took off her backpack for a drink of water from her canteen.

As she set the bottle to her lips, she saw a dark shape lying on the ground, around thirty metres further. The rock face above the shape was smeared with blood.

Huh. Seemed like her clumsy friend had come all the way down. She moved closer, still holding her canteen. And as she came closer, she saw that the shape moved. She was close enough to discern details now, and she saw that the man's arms and legs lay at an awkward shape. One of his legs was bent like a strip of boneless meat. His head was broken, and his lower jaw had snapped, the two halves slipped over each other so his chin looked like a stone arch that had cracked under the weight. She could see it even though he had a beard, so that jaw must be completely collapsed.

The man's eyes rested on her. One of his broken arms tried to raise itself, the forearm hanging limp like a dishrag. Broken bone jutted from the elbow. She knew what he was trying to say. Or better, trying to beg for.

Siari shook her head. He wasn't getting any water. It was hers, and all he'd do with it was die with it sloshing around in his ruptured belly.

The eyes pleaded, but Siari simply stoppered her canteen and put it back in her bag. She supposed she should put the man out of his misery, but on the other hand, what would he have done to her if he'd caught her?

_No, you can just lie here and die on your own._

Just as Siari put her hand on her shoulder to see how badly the arrow had hurt her, she heard a _fwhap!_ behind her. She whirled around, startled by the sound, and saw another body lie behind her, this one of a woman with a knife in her back, her head split from a not-so-soft contact with the rock face, her brain forced out of her flattened skull in a red and gray cone. A little higher, draped over a jutting rock, hung a man with a quiver on his back.


End file.
